


Two Halves of the Same Whole.

by Lady_Lou_Of_Lothlorien



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cmon the Phantom is from 1800 france, I could not ask for permission so I'm asking for forgiveness, I'm Sorry Tolkien, I'm not sorry andrew lloyd webber, Internalised homophobia on the phantoms part, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, also, because he's the only one who I know well enough that I can write this without researching, either slowburn friendship or romance, for the same reason pretty much, gerard butler HOT, gratuitous use of the word monsieur, i'm done, little bit of sexism from the phantom, ok so, plenty of OC mirkwood elves, slowburn, the characters will tell me what to do, the elves are super accepting of everyone though, the tags will be updated as this is, they're both injured babies, this is the phantom from the 2004 movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22652896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Lou_Of_Lothlorien/pseuds/Lady_Lou_Of_Lothlorien
Summary: Instead of a 'Modern Girl' being dropped into Middle Earth, it's everyone's favourite Opera Ghost. Falling at the feet of the King of Mirkwood's throne, unconscious, with a head-wound might not be everyone's idea of a good time, but it might just be the best thing that's ever happened to the Phantom. Or the worst.(Alternatively: This is a self-indulgent fic where I get these two characters into the same room multiple times to see what happens, because I kept wanting to read a fic with the two of them together and I could never find one, so I made one myself.
Relationships: thranduil/the Phantom
Comments: 95
Kudos: 59





	1. Prologue

The pain he felt was like a physical wound. It felt rather like that damned fop had managed to plunge his damned sword right though this heart. Of course, that wasn’t what had happened. Not even close. Christine had made her choice, and she had chosen _Raoul,_ not _him,_ and that was worse than any physical wound he could be given. There had been a moment of reprieve when his angel had returned, and he had felt the hopeful flutter of a single butterfly in his stomach against his better judgement, which only served to heighten his self-loathing when it became clear that Christine – _his sweet Christine_ – had only come back to give him her ring. The ring that Raoul had bought for her, that he had then stolen and once again given to her. What on earth was her meaning? Confounded woman, he truly wold never understand the workings of her mind. In a sudden fit of heated rage he drew his arm back and almost made to throw the blasted thing into the lake, but he caught himself before he could go through with the action. Then the vein of rage turned cold within him and he clutched the ring to his chest, weeping like a babe. What did her meaning matter, after all, when in the end she had chosen another?

The opera house about him was burning, that much he would’ve known, even if the air around him wasn’t so thick with suffocating black smoke. If he wanted to survive to see the morning, he needed to leave immediately. If the very air he was breathing didn’t choke him, the mob was sure to find his lair. There was also the possibility of the building collapsing down on top of him. But the Phantom wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to see the morning. The smoke or the building falling wouldn’t be a wholly unwelcome way for him to slip away from the harsh reality that his life had always been, but the mob finding him would certainly be unpleasant to an excruciating degree. They were closing in on him, and he could hear their angry song swell in his ears. His fingers no longer itched to pick up a quill, to write down the notes, to improve the music. Christine had left and taken his music with her, as well as part of his distorted soul.

He stood finally, dragging his limbs up with every last shred of will he possessed. There was a secret exit he could use, hidden behind one of his many mirrors, though what he intended to do once he escaped he did not know. He would have to break his mirrors to find it, though now that he stared at his un-masked reflection it would not at all pain him to do so. His hand reached for the heavy candlestick beside him, but before his fingers could close around it, he heard an almighty crash. The sound was so deafening it shook his very bones, and yet he hardly had time to register what was happening as he realised that the very ceiling above him was collapsing. His last conscious though before it crushed him was his fervent wish that Christine had already made it out of the building and then the rubble hit him and all was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for reading the prologue to this new creative project of mine. I'm looking forward to seeing where this takes me, and I hope you will continue to join me for the ride.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Phantom Arrives in Mirkwood.

Humans in Mirkwood was a rare occurrence, but for the most part when humans did appear they either found themselves expected or found their end. Among the former category was Bard of Lake-town, who came just past the borders semi-regularly to collect King Thranduil's empty wine barrels. It had been an age since there had been any confusion as to what would be the proper mode of 'hospitality' to show a human visitor, and yet here they were, utterly at a loss. 

Thranduil, and those elves who had an audience with the King that morning, were in the throne-room when there was such an almighty crashing sound that no doubt every elf in the Kingdom had heard it. The sound did not rattle any bones, for elves were made of sterner stuff than that, but it did leave their powerfully sensitive ears ringing. The sound had hardly even ended before they were all on high alert, fingers itching over sword-hilts, assuming the worst - especially with the ever-growing darkness in the forest. A moment after the sound had passed was when they noticed the unconscious figure at the foot of the stairs up to the throne. The figure was clearly human, for though his face was down his ears were visible, and they were not pointed. At a loss, Thranduil hesitated. This human would need to be questioned, naturally, but in this state he wouldn't be doing anything. The elves present looked to their King for their next move, but for the moment he said nothing, merely letting his eyes assess the man and his condition.

He seemed to be a tall man, at least for his species he might be. If he were an elf he would be well on the shorter side of average. The man was lying on his front, and his broad physique pointed to marked physical strength. His hair was a light shade of brown, reddish in places. Perhaps most importantly, this man had a rather nasty wound half hidden by - and slowly oozing blood onto - his hair. Having taken stock of these details in seconds, the King lifted a finder and signalled to two of his guards.

"Take him to the healers. Keep him in a private room, I do not wish him to _mingle_." The word dropped from his tongue with an air of distaste. 

"When he is awake, I am to be informed immediately. Am I understood?" Two perfectly-in-time replies of _'yes, my King'_ could be heard, and then the body of the man was being turned over to get him into a safe carrying position. Elves do not like to visibly show any surprise that they feel, but had the throne been surrounded by humans instead a collective gasp would have surely gone up. His face, which had become visible, seemed to be of two parts and neither part seemed to belong to the other. The left side of the man's face was handsome, even by elven standards, but the left seemed to truly belong to some vile creature of Morgoth, so twisted and marred it was. A discordant feeling ran through Thranduil as he, and those others present, were reminded once more of the unfortunate origins of Orcs. Elves, taken, twisted beyond all recognition and all hope.

The elves tasked with carrying him out to the healers did not halt when confronted with his face, for their King had already made his orders explicit. In truth they gave no visible reaction. Thranduil watched as the man was carefully but quickly removed from his sight, for past the horror stories of orcs the man's face had also awoken something else within him; familiarity. How could he forget what he himself looked like beneath the shield of his elven magic?

Then the man was gone, carried through a doorway and removed, and Thranduil turned his attention back to those matters he had been attending before the stranger had appeared. The King then deigned not to think of him anymore until he had word that he was awake, and through his own strength of will, he did not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the first proper chapter of this work. Please if you're enjoying it so far drop some kudos so I know! If you have anything to say about the story (positive or constructive) please leave me a comment. Thanks everyone! Also, I'm aware this chapter is pretty short, but I promise the chapters will get longer as they go along.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The phantom awakes.

He awoke in a bed that wasn't his with a throbbing pain in his head. The man did not feel as though he had amnesia - he remembered that the ceiling had come down on him - but he still did not remember how he had gotten into this room, this room that he did not recognise. He was no longer in the opera house. A pained gasp left him as he struggled to sit up. He managed it, though he had to grimace through the action. The lack of shifting porcelain as his face twisted up made him realise that wherever he was, his mask was _not_ with him. A sickly feeling of dread settled like a flagstone in the pit of his stomach. Who had seen his face? How many people? Had he once again been taken to a place where they enjoyed taunting those with visible... problems? His thoughts would've taken a darker path - one full of violence and of how he would fight his way out, rather than be subjected to the same ridicule as he had been as a child - but the niceness of the room checked his thoughts. 

The room was truly very nice. It was light and airy. A window must've been open, for the air was sweet and fresh, but he could feel no breeze nor any discernible chill - which there should have been with a window open in Paris at that time of year. Then again, the more he took stock of his room, the more he was starting to believe he wasn't in Paris at all. In fact, he had begun to doubt that he was even in France. The furniture, though admittedly lovely and obviously well-made, did not suit any of the current French furniture fashions that he knew of. Then again, he had to admit that the cast majority of his knowledge had been somewhat limited to what he could learn from within the opera house.  
  
Before his pondering could go any further he was distracted by the quiet sound of the door opening. The person who walked in shocked him so greatly that he froze, blinking stupidly at them. It was a woman, quite possibly the tallest woman he had ever laid eyes on. He was quite sure that if he stood, she wouldn't have been many more than an inch shorter than him. That alone would have been more than enough to surprise him, but it was not all, for the woman's ears were elongated, forming points at the tips like some illustration from a child's story book. The woman turned slightly after entering to quietly close the door behind her, and then her calm gaze turned towards him. Her lack of reaction when faced with he sight of his face made him forget for a moment that he was un-masked.  
  
"So you are finally awake." It was the first thing she had ever spoken to him, yet despite all its mundane civility he suddenly recoiled, snapping out of the relaxed haze he had fallen into. One of his hands feverishly sprang up to cover the ruined half of his face.   
  
The elf woman hardly seemed phased by his reaction, and she gracefully crossed the room to go to the table which was covered with items that the man was not familiar with.   
  
"There is no need." Her voice called to him again, as clear as church bells. "You have been asleep for three days. I've had time aplenty to acquaint myself with the way you look."   
  
"With the way I-" His hand almost dropped, but then, feeling almost as exposed as he had when Christine had ripped off his mask on the opening night of _his_ opera, he hissed like a feral cat and pressed his hand harder to his face. She hadn't even deigned to look at him, preoccupied with mixing together drops of liquid from various unlabelled vials into a wooden bowl. He watched her, her back to him, as she added a handful of a herb he didn't recognise to the bowl and ground it until she had made a thick paste.

The man didn't quite know what to do with himself, so he stayed fixed in place as she turned to face him again, holding the bowl in her hands. Her nonchelant attitude around him threw him off. People either treated him like a monster or a wounded bird - and of the latter there were few - not like... whatever this was. His eyes were drawn once again to her ears, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps she herself knew what it was like to be stared at. Though clearly her people hadn't cast her out, if she had been allowed to become a nurse of some kind - which was what he assumed that she was.   
  
"You will need to lean forward, there is a wound at the back of your head that must be attended to."  
  
The more she spoke, the more he realised that she had an accent he could not place, and that unsettled him. Still, he found himself leaning forward as she'd told him to all the same. The paste she applied to his head was cold, but there was still a stinging feeling as it was applied to his wound and he flinched.   
  
"It will be faster if you do not move." Her tone had not changed, but he still felt vaguely chastised. The hand over his face suddenly made him feel childish. This woman was clearly a consummate professional. Perhaps just this once, if she could act like his face wasn't the most hideous thing she'd ever seen, then so could he. It might've just been the oddest thing he'd ever thought, and yet his hand was suddenly resting in his lap. He felt naked. Her fingers left the back of his head and she placed the bowl she'd been holding onto the wooden table beside the bed.  
  
"Now that you are awake, the King must be informed."   
  
He froze. _The King?_ France did not have a King, hadn't had a King for quite a while, in fact. This at least was a confirmation that he was no longer in France, but it did not tell him where he _was._ Slowly he opened his mouth to speak, wondering how to test his words before they were said, but he could not think of any way to do so.   
  
"You said... King." He paused, the woman was going about her business, hardly seeming to pay attention to him as she gathered everything that would need washing onto a tray and put the glass vials onto rows of shelves lining the wall opposite the bed he was in. 

"I am not in France." Well that might've been more blunt than he'd been intending, but it had gotten her attention at least. She had paused what she was doing, and had turned to meet his gaze unwaveringly - which was rather disconcerting. No one held his gaze for long.  
  
"I have never heard of this 'France' that you speak of."  
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, behind the almost overwhelming sense of shock, he thought wryly that this woman could clearly be just as blunt as him. He watched, dumbfounded, as she turned back around, picked up the tray, and made for the door. She didn't seem to have anything more to say to him. Her movement as she crossed the room was graceful, but not needlessly so. She did not flounce across the floor like the ballet-rats he was so use to, but her footing was so sure - not a motion wasted - that he couldn't help but think she must be an accomplished dancer, as well as a nurse.   
  
_What an odd combination._ He mused to himself.

Then she was gone, the door was closed, and as his head still hurt and he had nothing better to do, he went back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos so far. If you are enjoying this it would really mean a lot to me if you could leave a comment about what you like, or even something you think could be improved. 
> 
> Chapter 3 due 2 March 2020.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Impressions.

King Thranduil was lounging on his throne, one leg draped over the other, when news came that the human was finally awake. The Healer had gone immediately to the throne room after she'd left the human, knowing better than to keep her King waiting. She had spoken to the guards outside, and had been allowed to pass without any wait, for their King was not currently engaged in any pressing business. Thranduil's eyes honed on the she-elf as she entered and came near the throne, her head bowed in respect.   
  
"Gaeriel."

"My King." She had been acknowledged, and she straightened, no longer needing to bow. 

"I presume you bring word of our guest." His ring-covered fingers lightly tapped on the arm of this throne, impatient now for news of something other than the growing darkness in his forest kingdom. 

"I do, my King. He is awake from his long sleep at last."

It would have been hardly noticeable, even for an elf, but Thranduil leant forward just a fraction as she spoke. Wanting to know that his orders had been obeyed in full, he pressed on for more information. 

"For how long has he been awake?"   
  
Gaeriel shifted her hands behind her back and clasped them together. Her King, though intimidating as he was, was not cruel. She had done as she was told, and knew there was nothing for her to fear from him. 

"I cannot say with absolute certainty, but my fellow healers and I have been checking on him hourly. I went in to check on him and refresh the salve on his wound not ten minutes ago, for it was my turn, and he had finally woken. I came to you the moment I had finished tending his wound."

Thranduil allowed her to finish, but as soon as she was done he spoke again and stood.

"Good. I wish to speak with him, take me to him." He would not show the elves present how truly eager he was to speak with the man - this eagerness fuelled by a burning multi-faceted curiosity - and so he waltzed down the stairs of his throne just as leisurely as he was want to do normally. 

"Of course, my King." Gaeriel herself was more than willing to take her King to see the man, as it would surely lead to her learning more about the unknown human who had been her patient for the last three days, for what healer could resist being interested in the origins of the wounds of their patients? Thranduil gave Gaeriel a small nod once he was at the base of his throne and she nodded in return before turning to lead him to the human. The King's robes flared out behind him as they walked together, and he gently questioned the healer as to the human's treatment and progress as they neared the healing rooms. 

The pair had walked to the healing rooms, and were almost at the human's own room when Thranduil paused. 

"I do not think it will be helpful for his recovery if we were to overwhelm him." He began, looking to the healer.

"This is true..." Gaeriel wasn't entirely sure what to suggest but, knowing that her King would be talking to her patient one way or another, she hastened to suggest a course of action that might be beneficial.

"Perhaps I should enter first, so as to announce your arrival. He has already seen my face - it is as much familiarity as we can give him, as we know so little about him."

The King agreed, and Gaeriel went forth to the door that the human was behind, paused for a moment, and pushed it open.

* * *

The man had gone back to sleep when the healer left... for all of 5 minutes. He woke for a second time, alone, and the realities of his situation hit him in a way they had failed to do the first time around. He sat up in his bed quickly, ignoring the way the motion made his head throb. His hands shook slightly as he threw back the sheets covering him and stood, taking in his surroundings once again. Once again he found nothing familiar, and he felt the sick feeling in his stomach grow. 

He remembered everything - Christine's rejection, the mob coming closer, the ceiling collapsing - but he had no idea how he had come to be in this strange place. The woman had led him to believe he was not in France, but when had he ever trusted the sincerity of strangers? For all he knew, it could be some ruse to keep him calm. The mob could have found him, half hidden by rubble, and this could just as likely be an insane asylum in Paris, or even some hospital wing in a prison. 

If he had been thinking clearly, the niceness of his room would have countered either one of those possibilities, but he was beyond rationality, working himself up into a panicked frenzy. He could trust himself, could _only_ trust himself. These people had tended his wounds nicely enough, but who was to say how his treatment would change as soon as he was fully healed? He stumbled across the room, harshly grabbing shelves - and knocking off a few bottles in the process, which shattered on the floor - to keep himself upright. He had rested for three days apparently, and that was long enough. He would leave now; he would dissapear like the Phantom of night the opera's inhabitants had believed him to be for so long. When he made it to the door he gripped the handle tightly and shoved. Nothing happened. They had locked him in. In that moment his vision narrowed until all he could see was his white knuckles gripping the handle. The man felt feverish hysteria bloom in his chest like a vicious rose, its thorns cutting his insides. At last and all at once the feeling came crashing over him, and he lost control of his thoughts and knew not what he did.

* * *

When Gaeriel opened the door, the sight that greeted her made her gasp quietly, for she was young for an elf and there was much that could still surprise her. The room, which she had left in pristine condition not half an hour before, was utterly and completely trashed. Dazed, she stepped inside, her quiet feet not enough to alert the man inside to her presence. Speaking of the room's inhabitant, she could not see him, but she could hear his ragged breath from behind one of the upturned items of furniture. 

"My King... to see you." She spoke softly into the room, and immediately backed out again, but not without noting the slight hitch in the man's breathing. Thranduil looked at her with a raised eyebrow when she left the room - which he had not yet looked in to. Her movements might have appeared serene and unhurried to a human, but to an elf her actions spoke of nothing less than beating a hasty retreat. 

"Is he well?" Thranduil asked, barely keeping amusement out of his tone. 

"Please, see for yourself my Lord..." Gaeriel all but whispered, for she was just about as flustered as an elf maiden could get after witnessing the carnage within the healing room. 

Thranduil, no longer able to withhold his own curiosity, hummed quietly and passed the healer to enter the room himself. The sight that met him was as follows. Though none of the furniture was broken - for elven furniture is in every case much stronger than it appears - it was strewn all about the room. Not a single item was in its original place. Several of the shelves had been torn off the wall, and where they had fallen on the floor they were joined by the smashed remains of the medicine bottles that had once rested calmly on them. Thranduil could not see the man, but by the sound of his breathing he could tell that the human was hidden behind the bed, which had been turned on its side with the sheets spilling all over the floor.

Thranduil reached behind himself and pulled the door shut, leaving Gaeriel alone out in the hallway. She stared at the door for a moment, deeply concerned, until she reminded herself that her King was a seasoned warrior and was in no danger from a single human, no matter how aggressive and volatile. Gaeriel returned to her duties and her other patients.

The King of Mirkwood vaguely wondered if he should be angry at the wreckage he had found in his Kingdom's healing rooms, but as it was the first proper thought he had was that he had been correct in assuming the man was strong for one of his race; elven furniture was often deceptively heavy as well as strong. Still, his lack of genuine anger didn't mean Thranduil wasn't ~~going to be a petty bitch~~ going to have his fun. He took a step forwards to be closer to the centre of the room, and then he began. 

"You come into _my_ Kingdom I know not how." Thranduil steeled his voice to ensure he sounded as serious as he intended to, which was rather an effort for he was actually rather enjoying himself. 

"You are wounded. We tend your wounds - give you a _private_ healing room..." He paused for effect. "And _this_ is how you show your gratitude." 

Thranduil had wondered how the man would react, but he had remained hidden as the King has spoken. The King frowned very slightly. This would be far more entertaining if he was graced with some kind of reaction. Thranduil walked further into the room until the upturned bed no longer obscured his view of his guest. The man's back was against the wall and his knees were drawn up to his chest. His arms - which Thranduil noted were clothed in a white fabric that looked rather fine and expensive - were around his head protectively. Thranduil could not see his face, but now he had walked around the bed he did not doubt the man was watching _him_. He could _feel_ the man's gaze. 

The King gathered his robe in his hand and with a flourish he swept the fabric in front of him as he perched down on the side of the bed that was sticking up, looking just as regal as he would on his throne. He tilted his head back slightly, his neck arching elegantly along with his eyebrows as he looked down at the man.   
  
"Am I to presume that this is your usual response to hospitality?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a little bit of an awkward place to end a chapter but I didn't want it to get too much longer than it already is. Also I will just mention here, I googled it and apparently Thranduil is 6'5". I'm bringing this up because in my head he's closer to 7ft. For the purposes of this fic, I'd like you all to go along with me that for Mirkwood elves, women average around 6ft and men average around 6'5", with Thranduil reaching a solid 6'8". Gerard Butler is 6'1", so we're going with that for the height of our dear Phantom. 
> 
> Also, I named the healer OC 'Gaeriel' using the fantasy name generator for lotr elvish names. 'Gaer' is sindarin meaning reddish/copper-coloured and 'iel' is the suffix meaning daughter of. So yeah, his nurse is a redhead. I've also found a pretty decently extensive sindarin dictionary so I'll be trying to encorporate actual sindarin words when there are interactions between elves and non-elves. If there are only elves in a scene, just assume they are talking in sindarin already. I'm nowhere near competent enough to create whole conversations of Sindarin. . . :')
> 
> Again, if you enjoyed this, please leave Kudos or a comment!
> 
> Chapter 4 due 9th March 2020.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and The Phantom finally speak.

> _"Am I to presume that this is your usual response to hospitality?"_

The man hadn't known how to react when his nurse had come back to announce the arrival of the man she called 'King'. Usually there would be no-one around to witness the aftermath of his blind rages. He was aware of being spoken to, but the sound was muffled at first although it because easier to hear once he decided to listen. He could hardly hear the man's footsteps when he walked closer and for a split second he was impressed, but this only served to fan the glowing embers of his lingering anger. 

He didn't move or make any kind of response as this 'King' continued talking, holding on to a fool's hope that whoever it was might just leave him well alone. The King continued speaking. He would have been more disappointed if this hadn't been what he expected. Then this King has moved into a space where he could be seen. The man himself had once again _not_ moved, but on this occasion it was because he found himself unable to. As much as Christine was - and always would be - his angel, there was no denying that this being was _ethereal_. This could be no King, he must at least be a saint, if not a genuine seraphim. The man at once hated the sight of his perfection, as sharply as it reminded him of his own brokenness, but he cold not look away. His mind unhelpfully supplied the knowledge that this being too had pointed ears. The man wondered if he had truly died when the ceiling of his lair had fallen on him. 

But then, this ethereal being spoke again, and for whatever reason, this particular set of words was enough to fan the embers of his rage back into a fire. 

" _Hospitality?"_ He spat out the word like it had personally insulted him. "Not once in my life have I been shown _hospitality."_

And it was true enough. Even _Giry_ \- undeniably the single person who had ever shown him true, unfettered kindness - hadn't gone as far as to show him hospitality. No, Giry had merely shown him a place where he could carve a life for himself and had essentially left him to his own devices. 

"Why should I believe, _monsieur_ , that you and yours will be the first to truly show it?"

His words came out cold and biting, and as he spoke he rose from his cramped position on the floor to stand. It only enraged him further to realise that the only reason he was now standing taller than this 'King' was because the King had remained seated. He said nothing. Indeed his calm demeanour had not altered in the slightest, which only made the man more irate. His voice rose to a shout as he continued. 

"Judas! You would give me a false sense of security, only to betray me the first chance you get." The man's eyes blazed but his voice suddenly dropped low. "You are no different than anyone else."

At that scathing remark, the King finally stood. He towered over the man so thoroughly that for once, this dangerous man actually felt slightly intimidated. The fact that he now had to angle his head up to stare defiantly at this strange King's face was nearly enough to make him burst a blood vessel. Thranduil, for his part, had lost his amusement in the situation. He met the man's burning gaze with his own, and he schooled his expression into something carefully neutral. 

"I had my suspicions that men may have treated you unfairly." He did not say 'because of your face' though both knew to what he was referring. Thranduil continued. "But do not make the mistake of comparing me to your kind, _mortal."_

Thranduil had put a fair number of humans in their place regarding the vast superiority of Elves over Men, but none of his previous encounters had prepared him for the way the man seemed to falter at his words, only to double down on his anger. This time, however, it was mixed with a dangerous dose of confusion that Thranduil plainly saw. For the first time he wondered whether this man had not simply been brought to his Kingdom from another part of Arda but from another world entirely. 

"Do you _mock_ me, monsieur?" The King stood his ground, for even though the man was fairly incandescent with rage - and was quickly turning red - he would not be intimidated by a little lost puppy, no matter how frantically it barked. 

"Why do you turn up your nose and call me 'mortal', as if we are not one and the same? If we are speaking now with meaningless insults, let it be known that I, dark angel and _Phantom of the Opera_ , am less mortal than you for all your angelic looks, as I have lived the majority of my life letting people believe I am little more than a spirit haunting the Opera Populaire." The man - or phantom - all but snarled his words at the still serene Elven King, but the anger was truly affecting him now. As he stood waiting for a response he could feel his pulse in his ears and the sound threatened to consume him and send him back into a mindless frenzy. His chest heaved, but he did not take his eyes off the unwanted blonde stranger. 

It didn't take the wisdom of an ancient elf to see that the situation needed to be diffused as quickly as possible. But how was it do be done? It wasn't a decision Thranduil could make after lengthy consultation with his advisors, it was a decision that had to be made with hardly enough time to breathe. Thranduil had seen his fair share of battle, had made his fair share of successful rushed decisions. His mind flashed through the words the man had yelled, trying to glean anything useful from them. A moment passed. The enraged human, who had been waiting for a response to his tirade, seemed a little off-balanced by the lack of immediate and aggressive retaliation. Thranduil's mind found what it needed. 

If what the man said was true, he must not be on the receiving end of physical contact very often. The knowledge that the Elven King had of the mortal race of men led him to believe that they required the touch of others far more frequently - and with a more genuine _need_ \- than Elves. The King made his decision. He was glad none of his kin were present to witness this, for they would certainly view what he was about to do as beneath him as well as rather intimate. In the moment, however, Thranduil couldn't bring himself to care, for he felt an unusual affinity to this man who had been mistreated by his own kind because of a physical deformity that he too secretly shared. Thranduil stepped forward into the man's space, who barely had time to react, and gathered him into his arms as he used to hold Legolas when he was a mere Elfling. 

To put it in more simple terms, Thranduil Opherion was hugging his little lost human.

The man froze just long enough for the great King to question whether or not he'd made the right decision, and then the man was practically collapsing into him and sobbing wildly. Thranduil was forced to support his weight, which was far from a difficult task, and merely held the man til he exhausted himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies. I want to take a moment to mention that there's some debate among the fandom as to whether Thranduil's scarring that we see in the film is a real injury that he hides with magic or some symptom of his damaged fëa somehow manifesting on his physical body in some way. I honestly like the arguments for both, and both can work well in a fanfiction setting. For this work however I want to make it clear that Thranduil has the physical injury that he covers, as this is the reason he relates to The Phantom as soon as he sees him. 
> 
> Also, I kind of feel like I want to explain my use of 'Judas' as an insult incase there are those who won't understand the Biblical reference. Judas is the disciple who betrayed Jesus which ultimately led to his crucifixion. It's a pretty old insult to use if you want to call someone a liar, betrayer, backstabber etc. Since in the 2004 film, phantom boy calls Christine 'Delilah' (which is also a Biblical reference) when she rips off his mask the first time in the lair, I feel like it's something he would use to insult Thrandy. This had been my TED talk ok bye. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed chapter 4, I know it's a little short but I really wanted to end it where I did :)
> 
> Chapter 5 due 16th March 2020.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and his councillors have a discussion.

Thranduil left the human - now asleep - on the floor of his room, trusting that whoever was next due to check on him would sort out the mess in the room and get the patient back into bed. The King, for his part, has been given much to think about. When he exited the room he took extra care to make his motions silent, as it would've been highly inconvenient if he made a sound that woke the human up prematurely. His caution was unfounded, for the man's emotional outburst had exhausted what little strength he'd regained. Thranduil made his way back towards he throne room, but when he reached the entrance he paused. He turned to one of the guards, not even bothering to check if he was paying attention to him, because of course he was.

"Have Orthordir and Thenedhûn summoned to my chambers. There is much that I would speak of with them."

Thranduil's chambers were, naturally, large and ostentatious. It was not entirely unheard of for him to hold council there, but it was not the usual way of things either. The King's official Council consisted of more than two elves, of course, but the situation at hand did not require the formality of holding a true Council. Thranduil merely wanted a space to voice his thoughts in the presence of those he both trusted and respected. 

Orthordir and Thenedhûn were his most trusted councillors. Thenedhûn might have been older than Thranduil himself, but there comes a point where elves of a certain age stop counting their years as religiously as mortals and some younger elves were want to do. He had been a councillor to Oropher prior to the Battle of Dagorlad, and when Thranduil had taken over the Kingship Thenedhûn had been instrumental in helping him step into his new role. Orthordir was younger than both of them by a couple of thousand years, though he was by no means young himself. He was an elf that Thranduil had chosen to join the Council after he'd taken the throne. It had only taken him several hundred years to prove himself as arguably the most talented member of the Council. He was also among the few members of the Council who would willingly and openly voice their opinion even when it wasn't in agreement with the King's, which Thranduil both respected and secretly preferred. 

The first room of Thranduil's chambers was an airy sitting room, tastefully decorated with chairs and side-tables, a bookshelf, and a fireplace - which would remain unlit til the evenings were cold enough to bother even those of elven blood. The walls were decorated with murals of the forest in all its seasons, and if you looked closely you would see that the paintings were inlaid with silver, gold, and copper to highlight the beauty of the trees. The King settled into one of the chairs to wait for the two council members. He didn't have to wait long. 

Orthordir arrived first. He hadn't been actively engaged in any important business when he'd been summoned. Though he hadn't rushed to get to Thranduil's chambers, he still made a show of checking his hair in the ornate mirror above the unlit fireplace. 

"Take a seat, my friend." Thranduil called to him as a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "Not once in all your years have I seen you with a single hair out of place."

Orthordir turned then to face his King, laughing freely in a way that did not always come easily to his kind.

"Not since I was an elfling at least, my King."

He all but fell down into the closest chair on Thranduil's right, though he naturally still made the action look graceful. It was easy for Thranduil to smile at his friend, then, for here was a rare elf who had not allowed his years to weigh upon him. Orthordir was a truly comforting presence to his King, even if Thranduil himself generally preferred to show his own amusement in a quieter way. The younger elf curled a strand of hair around his index finger as he levelled a firm stare at his King, his smile fading slightly.

"What is this about, Thranduil, is it serious?" 

The elf King tilted his head to the side and looked at his friend, eyebrows raised. 

"Patience is not one of your many virtues is it? I will not speak twice, wait until Thenedhûn arrives." Another elf might've been disheartened by that manner of a reply, but Orthordir knew Thranduil too well.

"My King." He began, leaning forwards slightly. "You would have me waiting an age."

At that, Orthordir actually managed to coax a rich laugh from Thranduil. The two of them then talked of other things as they waited for the absent elf. Thranduil asked Orthordir if he had received any more offers of courtship recently, and pointed to the elf's high position in his Council as making him a very desirable catch. Of course, Orthordir cried that his King was doing him an injustice, and raised his own unusual hair colour as a feature that interested many an elf. This was true enough, for Orthordir had been blessed with dark, chocolate brown hair that was free of the red undertones that were the norm for the elves of Eryn Lasgalen who were not blonde. Thranduil shot back that the elf should sell himself on his personality traits, not his looks, and the two continued on in this manner until Thenedhûn arrived.

They did not, in fact, wait an age for Thenedhûn to arrive, but it was at least 15 minutes before he finally knocked on the door to Thranduil's chambers. Thranduil bid him enter and he did. In his hands was a rather large bottle of Dorwinion wine, and he was followed by another elf who was carrying three glasses. 

"Was I correct in my assumption that whatever we have been summoned here to discuss would be better discussed over some refreshment?"

The elf who had followed him in silently placed the glasses down on a side-table and left the room, closing the door behind him on his way out. A beat passed. 

"You old alcoholic!" Orthordir cried. "Is this why you have kept your King waiting these many minutes?"

Thranduil, for his part, remained quiet as he watched Thenedhûn - who knew Orthordir too well to even feign offence - open up the bottle with the slightest of smiles.

"I imagine that you felt the wait more keenly than our King did, Councillor Orthordir." This did draw a laugh from both his companions, and he set about pouring a glass of wine for each of them. 

Thenedhûn and Orthordir were very different, both physically and mentally, though they got along well enough and their King cared deeply for both of them. Their chief similarities were namely a fierce loyalty to their King, an affinity for teasing each other, and a propensity for giving sound advice. Thenedhûn's hair was not dark like Orthordir's, it was a rich golden blonde that would almost look brown when not in the light. He was tall even for an elf, though not quite as tall as his King. Where Orthordir had managed to retain an air of youthfulness, Thenedhûn had not. Though his face was as ageless as any of his kin, his eyes held all the weight of his years. He, like Thranduil, had seen much pain and in truth there were times when a lesser elf would have faded, but Thenedhûn was nothing if not stubborn. His love for the people of Eryn Lasgalen could at times be said to rival even the King's own, and this fierce love and loyalty had carried him through many a hardship. 

The three elven men settled in their chairs, each now nursing a glass of Dorwinion wine, and Thranduil decided that it was time to get to business.

"I do not wish to alarm either of you, this isn't a matter of any great severity." He paused, looking down into his wine glass as he gently swirled the contents. 

"I asked you here privately because it is not a subject requiring the formality of summoning a full council, but it is a subject about which I would greatly appreciate your input." Thranduil looked at the two as he paused again, wondering how best to phrase his next words as well as whether or not either of them had guessed - at least in part - what this was about. 

Thenedhûn was willing to sit back and allow his King to get to the point at his leisure - in part because when Thranduil's words skirted around a topic, his manner of speaking was very reminiscent of Oropher's - but Orthordir was _not_. He leant forwards in his chair, though he was careful not to let his wine spill from his glass. 

"Oh, out with it you fiend, lest you discover a limit to my immortality with the length of your introduction alone!"

Thenedhûn stiffened in his chair. It had been many a year since Orthordir had said something that had actually managed to offend Thranduil - they were too much like friends - but there was the odd occasion that Orthordir said things that the older councillor thought came too close to the line. Thranduil merely laughed under his breath and reached out to place a hand on the dark-haired elf's arm. Thenedhûn let out a quiet breath he hadn't quite known he was holding.

"Forgive me, you know my love of all things dramatic." Indeed, all his councillors knew this, not merely the two present. 

He stood rather suddenly, then, and walked across the room to the fireplace. He put his glass on the mantlepiece and turned back to face his two councillors. 

"As I am sure you are aware, there is currently a human under my care in the healing rooms. He appeared rather suddenly, unconscious, and injured." Thranduil clasped his hands together behind his back.

"Now that he has awoken from his healing sleep, I had assumed that we would be able to get some answers from him, but it appears that he knows even less about his situation than we do." He paused slightly, realising that he'd been pacing the floor and he stopped abruptly. 

"And now we come to the point. There were certain... oddities in his speech that have led me to entertain a possibility that I would like you to give me your honest thoughts on. In short - " He turned to look at both elves in turn, a smile playing on his lips as he admitted the absurdity of his next words to himself. "I believe our guest may be from... another world that hitherto we have had no knowledge of, and they certainly have no knowledge of us."

There was a moment where no-one in the room said a word. Orthordir, who hardly knew what to make of his King's words - took a sip of his wine so as to pass all obligation of talking over to the other councillor present. Thenedhûn himself was rather confused, but his trust and faith in his King was bone-deep. 

"I know you would not be considering such an idea without some evidence."

He began, though he hardly knew how to continue, but it was enough. Thranduil could hear the unspoken words - _'It is an unbelievable notion, but I will endeavour to believe you, My King, if you give me even a slight reason to.'_ Thranduil was relieved that they would offer him even this much, for he was certain that there were some other members of the full Council who would have already blatantly denied the possibility of a realm outside the knowledge of the Eldar. Their faith in him restored his faith in his own convictions, and he presented what little evidence he had, which was chiefly the man's reaction to being called 'mortal' and the name of the man's home - which he had learnt from the healer Gaeriel on the initial walk to the healing rooms. When he'd finished presenting what scant evidence he had, he fell quiet. He would let the other two come to their own conclusions, rather than trying to put his own assumptions to the evidence and potentially swaying their analysis. Orthordir had finished his glass of wine, and it was he who broke the silence. 

"I will say his anger over being called mortal _does_ indicate that he truly does not know that we _aren't_." He looked down into his empty glass, frowned, and passed it to Thenedhûn, who took it and wordlessly moved to refill it. "A complete lack of knowledge about our people is highly unusual - even unheard of - despite learning being less valued in other races."

Thenedhûn passed the now full glass back to Orthordir, and then cut in with a thought of his own.

"The idea had occurred to me that this confusion could stem from his injury, but if this were the case why then should he have become so angry? It is not the sort of thing I have seen in my own experience, and it is an odd thing to have forgotten whilst still retaining knowledge of where he is from - which I concede is not a place I am familiar with."

The three fell silent once more, and Thranduil moved to retrieve his glass from the mantlepiece. He drank deeply till he had emptied it, and then he set it down again,

"My friends, I thank you, for your thoughts comfort me in their similarity to my own. I believe you would agree with me, then, that one explanation for the little evidence we have points to him being from another world, but that it is certainly a strange and perhaps dangerous conclusion to draw?" The two both silently acquiesced. 

"For now I will continue to entertain the idea as a possibility, though I will wait for further information before drawing any conclusions. Perhaps, pride be damned, the Lady Galadriel may need to be consulted in due course." Unnoticed by their King, the two councillors met eyes. For Thranduil to wish to seek the Lady Galadriel's power was a rare thing indeed.

"I would ask that, until anything more certain is known, you do not speak of what we have discussed tonight." 

Sensing that their presence was no longer required, both Thenedhûn and Orthordir rose from their seats. Orthordir spoke first. 

"Naturally, my King, you can count on both of us to be the very soul of discretion." He placed his hand over his heart and bowed low - an action which Thranduil acknowledged by a nod of his head - and when he straightened he moved to make his way out of the room. He left the door open as he knew Thenedhûn would soon follow. Thenedhûn repeated the formal bow that Orthordir had given, which Thranduil once again acknowledged. 

"Councillor Orthordir was correct in the assumption of my own discretion." He paused slightly, internally debating on whether to continue. In a split second, he decided that he would. 

"My King, once again you honour me with your trust - " Thranduil cut him off, though not unkindly.

"My friend, we both know you were a trusted councillor to my father, and now mine. I do not honour you with anything you have not rightfully earned yourself. You remain, as always, true to your name, Thenedhûn."

The two shared a moment of eye contact and heartfelt - but small - smiles, and then Thenedhûn turned to leave. Having brought the wine with him, he went to pick it up before he left, but Thranduil's voice stopped him.

"Thenedhûn. Leave the bottle."

With a much wider smile, Thenedhûn bypassed the bottle and made his way to the open door empty-handed.

"Of course, my King."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again, it is I, the author. In case you wanted an explanation of the names of the two councillors (which I am aware most of you won't) here it is! 
> 
> For Orthordir, I once again used the same fantasy name generator for tolkien elf names. It is made up of the word 'Orthor' which means 'To Master/Conquer' and the suffix 'dir' which is a male suffix. I gave him this name with the idea that he generally masters anything he sets his mind to with considerable speed and skill, even for an elf. 
> 
> For Thenedhûn, this is a name of my own creation that I had a little help with from one of my good friends lunaxial on tumblr. I named him in the style of Thranduil himself (meaning I took two sindarin words and put them together to give the name more meaning, like how Thranduil's name is vigorous (tharan) + spring (tuil).) Thenedhûn is loyal (thenid/thenin) + heart (hûn). I gave him this name with the idea that he is incredibly loyal to his King, and his loyalty is the trait in himself that he is most proud of. 
> 
> I will say I'm surprised at how long this chapter got with literally no Phantom in it at all. It wasn't originally supposed to be this, but after I spent about an hour for each of the two councillor's trying to decided a name for them, I fell in love with them as characters even though they were supposed to be very minor roles. I think we will be seeing more of them in future chapters than even I anticipated. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this longer chapter. I promise the phantom will be the main focus of the upcoming chapter. If you did enjoy, please leave kudos or a comment. Thank you!
> 
> Chapter 6 is due 23 March 2020.


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A door is left unlocked.

The man awoke once more in a room that wasn't his, but was fast becoming familiar. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked around, the state of the room struck a dissonant chord in his mind. It was as pristine as it had been the first time he woke up. It was as if his violent outburst had never happened. Reality is often an odd and fragile thing for those who have just woke up, and the Phantom man was left questioning for a moment what had really happened and what had been a dream. The longer he was awake the more he knew in his bones that none of it had been a dream, and the conspicuous bareness of some of the shelves only confirmed this to him.

Though physically rested, he felt mentally and emotionally drained, a feeling that wasn't helped by remembering just how he'd fallen asleep - sobbing and in another man's embrace. Still, he could hardly imagine now that these people meant him harm, even though the niggling suspicion was still there. Despite this, he could hardly think of any reason why they should want to treat him with any tenderness. More strange still, as his mind worked back over all that had happened, was that they had willingly and skilfully tended his wounds and had _willingly held him_ whilst his face was exposed. In all his life he had never experienced something like that - he hadn't thought it possible. He felt stripped and naked without his mask, he always did, but here this nakedness had not been met with any negativity. It was a lot for him to take in, and he certainly could not understand it.

His emotional outburst from before seemed to have cleared his head. He felt calmer than he had in a long time, and more in control of his faculties. Still, the room he was in had seemed to shrink. The air felt stuffy and thick, as though all the emotion he had released was hovering all around him. He wanted out. The man rose from the bed and stood, feeling a little shaky in that way people often do when they have spent many consecutive days in bed. When he looked down at himself, he noticed that he was wearing a garb fashioned in a similar style as the clothing that the nurse had been wearing. This realisation didn't make him feel any better. Since he'd first woken up in this strange place, he'd been both exposed and trapped at the same time. He slowly made his way from the side of the bed to the next nearest piece of furniture to lean on as he still felt a little shaky on his feet. He intended to make his way slowly across the room to the door and to try and open it, even though his better judgement told him it would be locked as before. He had to try at least; he couldn't feel comfortable alone in that room. The man wasn't sure exactly what he'd do if it _was_ locked, but realistically it would probably involve a lot of yelling and hammering on the door till it either broke or someone let him out. 

He reached the cabinet he'd been aiming for and looked towards the door. His eyes widened suddenly - it was open. Whoever had left the room last hadn't shut it completely, and there was a small sliver of the outside world visible in the gap between the door and the rest of the wall. The man felt his heart rate pick up slightly and, forgetting his shakiness, he let go of the cabinet and made his way over to the door as quickly as he could. He only stumbled twice. His strong, pale fingers clenched tightly around the delicate handle, and - after a deep breath - he yanked the door open.

Part of him had been expecting that the strangeness of the room might have been some trick, but it continued on outside. The door had opened on to some kind of wide, airy hallway. There was soft lighting from a source he couldn't see, but there certainly weren't any windows. He stepped quietly into the hallway and the door swung shut behind him and closed with a click. He turned back to face the door and instinctively tried to open it again. It wouldn't budge - it had locked itself automatically. He now had only two options; wait outside the door like a simpleton, or go exploring. His choice was clear. 

The man turned his back to the door and looked once in both directions, but which way should he go? Left or right? There was no real way to make the decision logically, as he knew nothing about the place and moreover had no real destination in mind. He looked once again in each direction, paused, and decided to go left.

* * *

Thranduil had slept well and deeply after single-handedly draining the magnum bottle of Dorwinion wine that Thenedhûn had left behind. Still, he had woken early and with no negative effects from the wine; it would take a lot more wine than he had drunk to have any substantial affect on the Elven King, who had built up considerable tolerance to alcohol over his long life. He had gotten out of bed, as he often did, with a desire to be productive. There were always tasks to do and problems to see to, and as King it was his primary duty to ensure that his Kingdom was running smoothly every day. 

It had been one of those days when nothing had gone wrong... and then he decided to go and check in on his human 'guest' once again. Now that he'd had time to think, there were questions to ask and answers to obtain. The hallways he passed down were empty and quiet, as the halls leading to the healing rooms often were, though they were less quiet than they used to be as the forest had grown darker, and more dangerous. Still, it brought him comfort that they were quiet on that day. As he neared the human's room, he wondered what state it would be in, whether he would have trashed it in another fit of rage or whether it would be tidy. Thranduil didn't have to wonder for long.

He came upon the door to the room and opened it silently with the master key he kept hidden in his robes. The pristine state of the room hardly registered in his mind, for his eyes had gone instantly to the bed, and the bed was empty. 

* * *

The door to the healers' common room flung open violently, and in stalked Thranduil all icy-calm. There were three healers in the room, and all three pairs of eyes turned to look at their King. His own eyes looked back at the three, taking on a cold glaze in his anger. 

"Where is the human?"

A moment passed and no-one spoke. The first emotion felt by the three healers was a sense of confusion.

"My King-" One of the healers spoke up. "He has not been moved, he is in his room." 

The Elven King was taken aback by the sheer stupidity of the statement. Thranduil knew his healing halls well; if the man was still in his room, Thranduil would not have had any trouble finding him.

"He is _not_ in his room."

Though Thranduil appeared calm - albeit angry - on the outside, within his mind his thoughts were going a mile a minute. Undoubtedly there were many things he did not know about the mortal, but the most pressing thought he had then was the realisation that it had not been entirely decided that the man wasn't a threat. At their first proper meeting, Thranduil had seen the man's fear and confusion, and had felt sympathy for the man in spite of himself. The little but curious information he had managed to glean from their conversation had caused him to speculate, but now with the man seemingly vanished Thranduil was on high alert once more and he was far more willing to think of it all as some elaborate trick to lull him into complacency. For what he could not say, but his first priority in that moment was to track the man down. If he was caught doing anything remotely suspicious, he would not be returned to the healing room, he would be sent to the dungeon instead. 

"You will find out how it came to be that your patient managed to leave a room with a door that automatically locks when it is closed."

Thranduil had not ruled out the possibility that negligence could be to blame. After all, it was always best to investigate all possibilities when situations like this occurred. 

The healers had exchanged shocked glances when Thranduil had told them their mortal patient was missing. Still they were ready and willing to obey their King's command, as for them this was now a matter of pride as healers. The man was not yet fully healed, it would not do for him to wander alone and potentially worsen his otherwise well-healing injury. 

"As for myself, I will look for him. One of you find Tauriel and inform her that at least a portion of the guards will need to do the same."

"Yes, my King."

Before the healer could even finish their words, Thranduil had turned and left the room in a flourish of flowing robes. His quick strides carried him back to the door of the man's room, which he barely glanced at as he continued past it, heading left of the door and further down the hallway in the direction that would lead him out of the healing halls. 

* * *

Tauriel, head Captain of the Elven guard of the woodland realm, was questioning one of the healers to get more information - she was certain her King would have stormed off before he could do so. 

"For how long has the human been missing?"

The blonde healer she was questioning seemed nervous, which Tauriel easily picked up on, though she could not pinpoint the cause of this anxiety. Perhaps she was afraid of the King. Tauriel could not blame her.

"We are not entirely sure. His wound was healing nicely and the King had already spoken with him... so there was no need to check on him so frequently..."

As much as Tauriel could sympathise, she needed faster delivered and more concrete information than this elf was currently giving. She cut her off.

"When did you last check on him before you were made aware that he was missing?"

The elf blinked, then seemed to collect herself.

"A little over three hours ago."

Tauriel grimaced slightly. The human could have gone nearly anywhere in the Kingdom in that time. At least she knew he had not entered the forest - the guards stationed at the gate had neither seen nor heard the mortal. 

"How was it possible that he left his room?"

She asked impatiently, for she felt an urgency to finish her questioning so that she could begin to give orders to her guards. Though she had directed her question to the nervous elf, it was another who answered. 

"We believe that whoever checked on the patient last failed to shut the door fully, as they would have been carrying a tray-"

Tauriel raised a hand to halt the long-winded exposition she was sure she was about to receive. The other elf fell silent.

"Who checked on him last?"

Neither of the two healers that had answered her questions spoke, but the nervous one looked away. Ah, now the nerves made complete sense. Tauriel smiled kindly, hoping to reassure her. 

"Clearly this was accidental rather than malicious. Do not worry, I will ensure that there are no repercussions." 

The blonde healer visibly wilted with relief, and the other who was present went to comfort her. Tauriel excused herself and set about sorting her guards into small search parties and she sent them out in every direction to scour the Kingdom. The Captain sighed internally as she thought of her King simply stalking off to search for the missing human without informing anyone as to where exactly he'd be searching. If she had known, she would have been able to cut down the number of search parties necessary to ensure that the entire Kingdom would be searched thoroughly.

* * *

The longer the man explored the strange place he'd found himself in, the more his wonder had grown. It hadn't taken him long to realise that he wasn't in a building per se, but rather some kind of amalgamation of many buildings all together. Moreover, this strange community - he realised - must be underground. He had seen many open spaces and many winding pathways, but not a single window. The knowledge had brought him a sense of comfort which he acknowledged as stemming from the fact that he had lived the majority of his life under the opera house in the catacombs, and consequently felt most at ease below ground level. 

He had not come across many other people, but those he had come across he had hidden from, hardly knowing why. He had become a phantom once again, disappearing into the shadows as they passed. With each new person he saw, his eyes had gone to their ears, and so far not a single one hadn't been pointed. This naturally confused him. He could have passed off the first two he had met as relatives with the same genetic condition, but surely not all of these people were related. Indeed, apart from their ears and the fact that they were all uncommonly attractive - even the men, not that he noticed, of course - they did not even look alike. 

He found himself taking twists and turns to avoid these strange people, though he did not move as quickly as he could have for he was often distracted by the foreign beauty of the place he was exploring. The man didn't know exactly how long he'd been wandering - time seemed almost not to pass in that strange place - when the winding hall he was travelling down opened up suddenly into a cavernous space. The man stopped and stared. Fleetingly, the man wondered if this place was Eden. There was light, real sunlight, filtering down from multiple thin cracks in the stone many feet above his head. Through one slightly larger crack, if he squinted, he could see dense foliage that seemed to indicate a forest above. That forest had appeared to bleed through the cracks and into the cavern. There was a quiet stream flowing through the lush foliage belonging to dark green plants, some with brightly coloured flowers, none at all that he recognised. The plants were exotic and sweetly scented, but they were also mysterious, and many were twisted and wild looking. It did not appear as though any of the plants had been hacked at and tamed by a fickle gardener who only cared about neatness, for they were all marvellous in their free and unfettered wildness, and yet he could spot not a single plant that he would classify as a weed. Had he been talking to anyone, he would have been speechless. Undoubtedly, the catacombs he'd haunted had the eerie and mysterious lake, but _his_ underground home had boasted nothing so truly magnificent as the sight now before him. 

The man moved forwards into this hidden garden and set about discovering each and every one of these unknown plants with an almost childlike delight. It was not everyday after all, that a mere man - a hopelessly flawed man at that - stumbled into a paradise. He tirelessly worked his way around the garden until his curiosity had been satisfied, and then he settled on a patch of soft mass of a colour green so dark it almost appeared blue. The man looked into the softly bubbling stream and relaxed. A sense of calm washed over him, and he finally had a chance to begin to properly process all that had happened with Christine, and everything that had led to the ceiling collapsing on him. He could not process anything that had happened after that point, as he was still highly confused about all that, but at least he finally had a chance to think over everything else. He had lived for so long burying his emotions until all he could feel was obsession and rage, but there was something about that secret place which was coaxing him into beginning the work of undoing a lifetime of bad practices. The man removed what he was wearing on his feet and dipped his toes into the cool water. He settled deeper into the moss, closed his eyes, and began to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's so long. 
> 
> Side-note, I know that Tauriel's existence is a point of contention with some people but come on, you really think I'm going to keep coming up with original names for OC Mirkwood elves when I have been given characters by good ole Sir Peter? Not on your life. That shit takes forever. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you did please leave kudos or comment <3
> 
> Chapter 7 is due Monday 30 March 2020.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and the Phantom meet again.
> 
> (Also if you haven't already, I strongly advise you go and listen to "No one would listen" on youtube. It's a deleted song from the 2004 Phantom of the Opera movie, and it's what the Phantom is singing in this chapter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for anything said in Sindarin will be beside it in brackets. (like this) :)

Thranduil tore down the twisting halls of his realm, his robes billowing out behind him as his feet fell in quick succession, albeit quietly. Though he'd given orders for his guards to join him in searching for the human, he had an inexplicable desire to be the one who found him. Call it curiosity or something else, but whatever it was, it was certainly making itself known. The King's mind raced through the information he had that could help him find the man. 

_He hadn't been found yet._ Thranduil did not doubt that had one of his subjects found him, he would have been returned to the healing rooms immediately. 

_He had called himself a phantom, had he not?_ The Elven King thought this implied some affinity for moving in the shadows. 

Thranduil decided he would take turns down the darker hallways and wherever there seemed to be the least people. He could only hope that these choices would lead him down the same path the human took. 

After roughly ten minutes he'd taken so many twists and turns he was sure that, had he not known his kingdom like the back of his hand, he would surely have been lost. Thranduil was beginning to feel disheartened in his search, though he was by no means ready to give up. It was then that he heard it. At first it was so faint that the swishing fabric of his robes almost obscured the sound completely, and so the Elven King came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the path upon which he was walking. He heard it again then, slightly clearer for he had set his focus upon it.

_"No one but her."_

The voice was far away, and yet called to him stronger than anything had in a long time. Thranduil's mind rebelled against the idea of a mortal with a voice so fair, but he knew of none in his realm who would choose to sing in anything other than Sindarin. It _had_ to be the human, for it could be no other.

_"Heard as the outcast hears."_

The lyrics were sorrowful, bittersweet, and Thranduil felt a sharp tug in his chest. His own sympathy for the mortal man confused him somewhat - though he knew from what it stemmed - as it had been many centuries since he'd allowed himself to care for any human. They were so short-lived, like wisps of cloud, floating towards an inevitable death from their very first moment. How dangerous it was to allow a mortal even a shred of affection or care, and yet as Thranduil strained his ears to determine the location of the source of the song, he found that he could not help himself. 

There was a long pause, and Thranduil feared that he had only caught the songs end, but after one beat too many for the King's comfort it began again. As Thranduil began to stalk down a much more deliberate path than he had before, the song - which grew steadily louder - flowed over him like a warm summer wind.

_"Shamed into solitude,_

_Shunned by the multitudes,_

_I learned to listen,_

_In my dark, my heart heard music."_

As Thranduil listened to the words of the song, it became increasingly obvious how personal it was. He would have felt ashamed of intruding on such a private moment if his curiosity wasn't so fierce. After all, he was learning more about the man's tale from the song than his previous failed attempt at talking to him. 

_"I longed to teach the world,_

_Rise up and reach the world._

_No one would listen,_

_I alone could heard the music."_

So he fancied himself as some kind of musical genius did he? Thranduil filed away that little tidbit. True, the man could sing nicely - better than 'nicely' if Thranduil was being honest - but whether or not the man was a true genius or merely narcissistically over-estimating his abilities was yet to be determined. 

_"Then at last, a voice in the gloom,_

_Seemed to cry 'I hear you;_

_I heard you fears,_

_Your torment and your tears'."_

Thranduil was close now, and he realised finally - and with some surprise - where the human must be, for there were no other turns left to take. He hadn't expected that the human would be found in a place so beloved by his kin, a place where they could immerse themselves in the beauty of their forest without exposing themselves to any of its dangers.

_"She saw my loneliness,_

_Shared in my emptiness."_

Thranduil slowed as he entered the green cavern, not wanting to startle the man and end the song prematurely. When he caught sight of him however, he realised it hadn't been necessary, for his back was to the entrance and Thranduil had long since learned just how quiet elven footsteps were to human ears. The man was crouched over the stream, one hand touching the water. The King got the sense that the song was nearly over, and a strange melancholy settled over him. He wanted to know what the story of the man's life was, and what chapter he was bringing to a close.

_"No one would listen,_

_No one but her,_

_Heard as the outcast hears."_

Thranduil took a step forward, entranced by the man's voice, yet still aware enough to avoid stepping on anything that would break underfoot.

_"No one would listen,_

_No one but her,_

_Heard as the outcast hears."_

The man's voice trailed off into a silence the Elven King wasn't sure how to break. Thranduil watched the man's shoulders stiffen, then, and he turned his head slightly, though his gaze was till on the flowing water. 

"I know you are there." 

Thranduil was struck by the realisation that this was the first time the man had spoken to him without anger tainting his voice, and what a voice it was, warm as wine and soft as crushed velvet. He moved towards the stream, towards the man.

"How?"

The King asked, finally standing beside the man. A soft exhale could be heard - the man was amused. 

"Perhaps you are not as sneaky as you think, monsieur."

His damaged face had tilted up to look at the King, and Thranduil met his gaze unflinchingly. He seemed surprised, though he hurried to wipe the emotion from his face. The man was calm, or so he seemed, and Thranduil was eager to keep him thus. It was far pleasanter than the alternative. In light of this aim, Thranduil did what might very well have surprised the majority of his subjects; he gathered his robes and lowered himself gracefully until he was sitting level with the strange man. Surprise once again was evident on the human's features, and he was not so quick to hide it as he had been before. 

As the moment dragged on, the man's confidence seemed to leak out of him, and it was he who broke eye-contact first to look away in an attempt to shield his face from such a steadfast gaze. Thranduil said nothing at this, and instead raised his left hand from where it rested against the soft earth beneath him. Slowly, oh so slowly, he brought the palm of his pale hand to the right side of the man's face, the ruined side. The cautious motion was calculated to give the man an opportunity to pull back if he wished, but he seemed almost mesmerised by the slender fingers slowly reaching towards him.

Thranduil heard the slight hitch in the human's breath as his hand finally connected with the tortured flesh, just as he heard his heart rate stutter and speed up rapidly. Thranduil, with his head slowly tilting to the side, observed the man freeze, swallow, and finally press into the touch. His eyes fell shut, but not in time to prevent a single tear from escaping and trailing down the smooth side of his face. He rather reminded Thranduil of an animal that had been raised among people but had been abandoned, and was therefore skittish and wild but still longed for a connection with people once again. The King felt his heart ache acutely in his breast, and he knew then that he had already committed himself to ensuring that this man would suffer no more for the rest of his mortal existence. 

Though the man still pressed into the gentle touch, his eyes flickered open again to look warily at the Elven King. Thranduil watched as his full lips parted as if to speak, though he clearly could not find the words. Finally, Thranduil found his voice to speak for the both of them.

"You are confused. You have questions." It wasn't so much a question as a statement, but the man silently nodded. Thranduil noticed the man's hand shakily rising out of the corner of his eye. He shifted his gaze to watch it as it came up to rest on top of the King's own. The man's fingers were warm and calloused, and they gently felt Thranduil's as if he needed to confirm that there was truly a hand upon his face. 

"I too have questions of my own for you."

The man seemed to remember something suddenly. His hand dropped as if it had been burned, and his eyes took on a haunted look. The man leaned back, away from Thranduil's touch, though Thranduil's hand lingered in the air for a few moments before his fingers curled into his palm and he drew his hand back to himself. 

"You are not used to people touching you."

"I am not used to people _seeing_ me."

Thranduil could not help but smile slightly, the corners of his mouth barely twitching upwards. It earned him a skeptical look and raised brow all the same. It was an effort, but the elf managed to school his expression back into something more neutral.

"When I called you mortal before, you were angry." He began, choosing his words carefully so as to avoid reigniting the man's wrath - which was difficult, as he did not know him to know what exactly would set him off.

"Tell me, what do you think I am?"

A strange question, to be sure, but Thranduil was eager to know the answer nonetheless. The man's face hardened slightly. Ah, so he still thought he was being mocked. The Elven King was certain then of at least one thing, this man - whoever he was and wherever he came from - truly did not know that Thranduil was an elf, different from himself in many ways. His answer to the question only confirmed this conviction. 

"Unless I am dead, and you are an angel, you are a man, _monsieur_ , same as I."

Thranduil could not hold back his own soft, bubbling laughter. The situation was ridiculous. Never had he met a man who hadn't heard of The Elves before. The man's face hardened further at the laughter, and Thranduil was swift to raise his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Peace, I would not incur your wrath. _Se i mâr nîn. Le natholf hi."_

_(This is my home. You are welcome here.)_

At the sudden language switch, the man's face softened once more, much to Thranduil's relief. 

"What language is that?"

"The language of my people. There is much I would tell you, but I do not think you will believe me."

The man's curiosity made itself known then, and he subconsciously leaned towards the ethereal presence across from him.

"Is what you would tell me so unbelievable?"

Thranduil laughed quietly once again, for the simple answer to that question, based on how the man had taken being called mortal, was 'yes'. Thankfully, his gentle amusement wasn't met with another bout of instant suspicion.

"Perhaps it is, but I believe I can do something for you that will teach you to trust me."

The man leaned closer once again, now slightly invading the Elven King's space. Evidently Thranduil had said something to amuse _him_ , for a dangerous smirk was playing on his lips.

"I do not believe, good monsieur, that any single action you could do would cause me to trust you implicitly." 

Thranduil leaned in, then, bringing their foreheads together. The man's bravado crumpled for a moment, for he had clearly been startled by the sudden lack of personal space, but then it was back. Not wanting to back down from whatever strange challenge this was, he stayed put, looking into the depths of the King's eyes. Thranduil's voice was muted when he spoke again, not wanting to shatter this strange atmosphere he'd created. 

"Do I have your permission to try?"

The man's smirk grew. The gauntlet had been thrown, and it was up to him to pick it up. Accept the challenge.

"Do your worst."

Something gleamed in Thranduil's eyes at that, and the air around them seemed suddenly full of _something_ , though the man could not say what.

"Close your eyes." Thranduil murmured, and though highly sceptical, the man did as he was asked. The Elven King drew on the magic he possessed, feeling it surge and swirl around his body. Very gently, he used it to open the man's mind to him. 

"Imagine yourself as you would choose to look."

The man wanted to question why, but there was something in the tone of what was said that made him want to comply, if only to see what was going to happen. Thranduil saw how, in his mind's eye, the man pictured himself as he was. The image slowly changed. Now, the man was dressed in strange dark clothes that resembled the style of what he'd been wearing when he'd fallen into the throne room. His hairline became regular, his hair darkened to black, and his face was covered by a bone-white mask. Then, finally, the image changed again. The mask melted away and beneath it, the right side of his face matched the left. Thranduil belatedly realised that the man was once again crying, shaking slightly as he tried to keep his tears silent, and Thranduil realised that this was probably a fantasy he did not dare indulge himself in imagining. 

The Elven King reached out with his magic again, this time weaving a spell much like the one he used on himself, to cover the man's deformity with the image of what he'd pictured in his mind. Rather pettily, however, he did not darken the man's hair, though he did fix his hairline. He would not have _his_ human guest looking like he belonged more in the halls of Lord Elrond than in the halls of King Thranduil. When the magic had settled, Thranduil pulled back. The man's eyes opened, glistening, and he stared at the King with a face that bore no visible blemish. 

"What did you do?"

He whispered, his words barely carried out of him on a puff of breath. The ancient magic still thrummed in the air around them, though Thranduil was certain the man could not hear it. Perhaps he was one of those lucky mortals who could quietly sense its presence. Thranduil leaned back on one hand, and no doubt the pose seemed leisurely, but in reality it had been a long time since he had used magic on a being that was neither an elf nor a part of his forest, and forcing a spell onto a creature so inherently un-magical had taken a lot out of him. 

"Look into the water."

He did.

The man saw his reflection, imperfect though it was due to the flowing of the stream. He saw himself, free from the deformity that had tortured him his entire life. Unable to quite process what he was seeing, the man promptly fainted, and Thranduil had to dart forward to catch him, lest he fell into the water and drowned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear for the last few chapters I've written it going 'wow, what a long chapter' and then the next one has been even longer. This is no exception to that. 
> 
> Also, this chapter involved wayyyy too much of me holding my free hand up to my face to figure out what on earth I was writing about. Hopefully I don't get acne, tHaNKS Thranduil.
> 
> Chapter 8 due April 7th 2020.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King and The Phantom finally exchange names.

The man woke in a bed that wasn't his, in a room he didn't recognise, and he thought to himself that it was becoming a rather concerning habit of his. The ceiling was certainly further away from his face than the ceiling in the first strange room he'd woken up in, and when he shifted his limbs he realised that the bed itself was larger than that first bed had been. When he turned his head, he saw that strange man - who he still wasn't convinced was actually a King, regal though he looked. 

It took a moment for the haze of unconsciousness to pass, and when it did he sat up suddenly, his limbs going rigid and his breathing heavy. Did he dare believe it had really happened? 

The King, who had been comfortably splayed over a large chair with a book, sat up as well. He seemed to realise that the man on the bed was awake. A long, elegant arm reached to pick up something from a table beside him, and he then offered whatever it was to the other without even looking at him or closing his book. 

Torn between insulted and confused by such treatment, the man on the bed struggled to find something to say, but when his eyes flickered down to find that the offered object was a mirror conscious thought fled. He snatched at it, almost knocking it to the floor in his haste. His eagerness drew a chuckle from the 'King' in the chair, but the sound did not even register in his mind for him to be affronted by it. 

With shaking hands he brought the mirror up to his face, and what he saw he couldn't bring himself to believe. It was the same thing he had glimpsed in the running waters of that secret stream, the sight that had shocked him into fainting. Reflected in the glass of the mirror he saw his own face, both sides matching, as unblemished as if he hadn't been born a monster. It took him a while to find his voice, but when he did, there was only one thing he could say.

"How is this possible?"

The book snapped shut and the other's gaze found his face. 

"I have not healed you. It is a masking spell from the magic of My People."

A furrow appeared between the man's now perfect brows.

".... the magic of your people?"

The King did not seem to realise that both the magic _and_ the people were in question, or if he did, he chose to overlook it.

"My People. I am King Thranduil of the Elves of the Greenwood. I suppose it was past time for a proper introduction."

The man blinked, the furrow between his brows deepening. 

"Elves... don't exist."

The way he said it made it sound like more of a question than a statement, for he was too confused in that moment to be sure of his own convictions.

"Indeed?"

The King, who he now knew was called Thranduil, looked at him with an infuriatingly handsome smirk.

"Have I been living a lie these odd six and a half thousand years?"

The man wasn't sure what to do with the implication that Thranduil was thousands of years old. Only the day before, he would surely have flown into a rage at being told such a ridiculous lie, but having seen what Thranduil had done to his face, he could no longer rule out things he had previously thought impossible. 

The King, who claimed to be an elf, rose from his chair and moved to sit on the side of the bed instead. Deeply confused - and questioning everything he thought certain - the man didn't immediately notice the change, but when he did he startled, and then tried to act like he hadn't. Thranduil was openly observing his face, much as he imagined an artist would examine a completed painting. It made him nervous, uncomfortable, and he had to consciously remind himself of his own newly gifted perfection to stop himself from shying away from the gaze.

"I have questions for you, will you answer them?"

The man made no movement, and gave no sign of acceptance or rejection. He would not promise anything, and would take each question as it came. For Thranduil, who still very much remembered how quickly the man's anger could manifest, the blank reaction was far from dismaying. 

"Where are you from?"

"France, monsieur." 

"I have never heard of such a place."

"And I have never heard of any 'Greenwood'."

The man was rather proud of himself at that, a smirk playing on his own lips that Thranduil observed with interest. However, the King did not halt his questioning. 

"In France, are there no Elves?"

"None."

"Are there Dwarves?"

The man's eyebrows lifted a little and he looked at the supposedly Elven King incredulously. 

"Come now, sir. It is enough that you claim to be an elf, but to suggest there is such a thing as dwarves? Do not expect me to believe it. Next you will be claiming to know wizards and dragons, and fairies and little gnomes. It is too much."

At that, the King's own eyebrows rose to match the expression the man himself possessed, for that answer had told him much. Thranduil leant forwards, his head tilted as he reverted back to a more neural expression once again. The man licked his bottom lip and swallowed, willing himself not to be intimidated by the imposing figure encroaching on his personal space. He supposed he should be used to it by now from this King, though they had known each other but little.

"Look at us, talking all this time." 

Thranduil paused, more for dramatic effect than anything else, as he often did when speaking.

"Will you not now gift me with your name?"

A simple enough question in itself, to be sure, but the answer was not so. He did not answer right away, and Thranduil did not press him to speak as the silence wore on, for his internal conflict was written plainly across his face for all to see. Finally, he began an attempt at an answer. 

"I had a name, a real name, when I was a child. I have not gone by it in many years." 

His words came out slow, as though he were thinking out loud rather than truly talking. The man was confused yet again, but this time he was confused by his own desire to answer the question truthfully. He could only suppose it was because the elf had done something wonderful for him, and subconsciously he wanted to repay him in what little way he could.

"I have gone as The Opera Ghost, or The Phantom Of The Opera for a long time, but those were titles, not true names, and I-"

He paused, seemingly getting caught on whatever he was trying to say next.

"When I- When _she-_ "

There he paused again, eyes wide at his slip. He wanted to answer honestly, that was one matter, but that did not mean he wished to share anything so intimate with another man he hardly knew. After a brief silence, he spoke again, having found a method of explaining that he felt comfortable with. 

"That chapter of my life is behind me. The door is closed, and I do not want to open it."

His next words were pushed through gritted teeth.

"Yet I will _not_ go back to being Erik."

Thranduil was struck by the man's unexpected response, and the man saw this. He briefly wondered if he would be pressed for more explicit information, but just as he had clearly surprised the King, the King in turn surprised him.

"Then you need not."

The man blinked up at the King. Had he not asked him for a name? He had not entirely expected Thranduil to care about his dislike of his name, but it was clear that he did care. The man didn't know what he could say to that - he had been prepared for the King to use his name, if only so he could rage at him to get rid of his constant, discomforting confusion for a time - so he said nothing, but a question was painted boldly onto his features; _then what should I do?_

Thranduil leant back, posture relaxed but straight as he let a barely-there smile creep back onto his face. 

"My People have three types of names. The first is given to you when you are born, the second you can choose yourself, and the third kind can be bestowed upon you."

Thranduil stood suddenly, gracefully, still looking down at the man on the bed with a steadfast gaze. 

"I am willing to give you a name, with a meaning in the language of My People, but you must earn it."

"How?"

The man's eagerness was unexpected, even to himself, but he realised that it made sense, to wish for a name neither tied to abuse nor weighed down by his own misconduct. He could see from Thranduil's description that he already had the first two kinds of names, for _Erik_ had been given to him by his loveless mother, and - though he now loathed to call himself by it - _the Opera Ghost_ had been a title he had very much chosen for himself.

"It will soon be _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ ; The Feast of Starlight."

Thranduil turned to look at the door for a moment, imagining he heard footsteps beyond the confines of his chambers, for in his chambers they were, not that the human would be aware. When he could not catch a distinct sound, he turned back to the man, who had such an earnestly eager look in his eyes that he once again gelt a tug in his breast that was fast becoming a familiar sensation. 

"If you sing at the feast, I will give you a name, _mellon nîn."_

_(My friend)_

The man blinked once, but then his shoulders rolled back and his lips pulled upwards - the picture of confidence. 

"If that is all I must do, monsieur, consider it done."

They were both looking at each other, both highly satisfied with the outcome of their conversation, when there was a hurried knocking at the bedroom door. Thranduil's voice hardened with annoyance. 

"Enter."

In walked Galion, the King's butler, looking as flustered as an elf could. 

" _Aran nîn."_

_(My King)_

He began, but was cut off by Thranduil.

_"Amman odúleg hi?"_

_(Why are you here?)_

_"Tauriel-"_

Whatever Galion had been going to say became pointless when the Captain of the Guard herself came hurrying into the room after him, clearly impatient and agitated. 

_"Aran nîn, i firen-"_

_(My King, the human-)_

Whatever _Tauriel_ had been going to say was abruptly halted when her eyes settled on the man in her King's bed, who, though now remarkably unblemished, was clearly the human she and her guards had been looking for.

"He is HERE?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well lads, this one wasn't quite as crazy long, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same. As always if you liked this chapter please leave kudos or a comment, or both! I do try to reply to every comment that people leave on my fics.
> 
> Also, I want to mention the comment the Phantom makes about not believing dwarves exist. I did try to research the history of dwarfism in humans to see whether people with it were referred to as 'dwarves' at the time POTO is based, and I think they were? But also, the Phantom (at least the 2004 movie Phantom) doesn't have that much experience of the world, so I'm not sure if he would know to call them that even if he had seen someone with dwarfism. 
> 
> If you like my work consider following me on tumblr @ladylouoflothlorien because I gots other stuff on there, ya dig? Ok I'm gonna stop that. See you all next monday for the next chapter!
> 
> Chapter Nine due 13th April 2020.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nameless man gets a new permanent abode, and some awkward questions get asked.

Tauriel pushed open the door to one of the empty chambers reserved for royal and other high status guests. 

"In here."

She turned and looked at the man behind her, who she had mostly ignored whilst leading him there. When she'd discovered the human in her King's chambers, Tauriel had been beyond enraged. She and many of her guards had wasted valuable time looking for a man Thranduil had clearly already found and hadn't bothered to inform anyone. However, Thranduil was still her King, and her irritation had to be kept in check. At least in his presence. 

The female elf had remained silent - at least after her initial outburst, which had come from shock before her anger had set in - as Thranduil had ordered her to guide their 'friend' to his new accommodation in the royal guest wing. The fiend hadn't offered the Captain of his Guard so much as a shred of an apology for sending her on a wild goose chase, and he'd had that infuriating smirk plastered on his face as he often did. 

The walk from Thranduil's chamber to where they were no had been distinctly lacking in conversation. Tauriel had spent most of it muttering under her breath in an attempt to get her rage out of her system, only checking on the human man every now and then to make sure he was keeping up. The man had spent the entire walk trying to recover from _his_ shock at seeing a woman so openly and confidently bearing weapons.

Having now delivered him to his new accommodation, she felt her own rudeness. The fault in the situation lay entirely with her King; this man did not deserve to be ignored. Besides, the brisk walk had managed to clear her head a little, and with her anger somewhat abated her curiosity had increased. Not many Elves in the Kingdom had managed to interact with their King's human guest after all. 

When the man entered the room she had led him to, Tauriel followed him inside and closed the door behind them both. The man walked towards the centre of the room, looking around slowly and glancing at the other doors he could see leading off from the room they were in. The royal guest chambers were styled similarly to the King's own, though they were smaller and contained only three individual rooms; a sitting room, a bedroom, and a washroom. Thranduil had several more rooms in his. As the man took in his surroundings, Tauriel hung back. She went to the armchair closest to the door and perched lightly on the armrest, not quite sitting but not quite standing up either, and her arms crossed over her chest loosely as she unabashedly observed him.

"What is your name, human?"

She asked, calmly, and did not let her amusement show when he suddenly whipped around to face her, though she was impressed he managed to turn so quickly without stumbling a little. Tauriel would not have expected such agility from a human. The man appeared to collect himself, and it took him a moment before he was ready to answer. In all honesty, he'd expected her to continue to ignore him, and so her sudden question had caught him off guard.

"I don't... I do not have a name I want to go by, but your King has promised to give me a new one if I sing at ... the starlight festival?"

Tauriel's expression softened, and where her expression had been blank before she now bore a small smile.

" _Mereth Nuin Giliath;_ the feast of starlight."

The man nodded, that sounded like what Thranduil had said. 

"That is an _honour._ " Tauriel's voice was so reverent that the man quickly felt surprised he'd been asked to sing at all. Thranduil had only heard him sing once. The man himself was confident in his own abilities, but it seemed off that Thranduil would trust him with what was now evidently a very important occasion. Tauriel continued.

"All light is sacred to the Eldar, but wood-elves love best the light of the stars."

The man moved from the centre of the room to the chair unoccupied by Tauriel and sat, looking across at her with an eyebrow raised. He noticed when she smiled so with a far away look in her eyes she was rather handsome, though objectively speaking Thranduil was still the most attractive elf he'd seen so far. He quickly pushed that thought aside, a little disturbed by it. 

"Is that what you are? A wood-elf?"

This snapped Tauriel out of her reverie and she looked to him again, confused.

"Yes, did you not know?"

The man shrugged, refusing to let her genuine confusion wound his own confidence in his intelligence. In France, no-one else believed in Elves either, he had not been the only one.

"I didn't truly believe in Elves before today. Your King managed to convince me."

Tauriel's relaxed posture shifted into something more alert, and she leaned towards him slightly.

"How strange..."

She trailed off, noticing that the man wasn't exactly being free and open with information about himself. Tauriel was not entirely sure how well he'd take being questioned, and so she held back, forcing her posture to relax once more. 

"Well.. I asked you for a name before, but as you have none to give me, I will call you _firen_ until you do."

The man had not expected the sudden backtrack in the topic of their conversation, though now she had spoken once again in a language he did not understand and he could not be sure if she was mocking him or not.

"What does that mean?"

"It means 'human'. It is accurate, is it not?"

She did not sound malicious, though the man was sure that she was teasing him. At least he could give as good as he got in that department, for he had been used to teasing the staff and managers of the Opera House. Still, her boldness was surprising to him, whose understanding of women came only from the meek and giggly ballet rats, the brash and grating Carlotta, and the widowed Madame Giry. Of course, there had also been Christine, but he was doing his utmost to keep her from his thoughts.

"I suppose it is. Should I call you elf, then?"

Tauriel's laugh was like silver bells, and she could not deny that she found the human's attitude refreshing. 

"You could, but I would prefer it if you were to call me friend."

"Do your people have a word for that, then?"

" _Mellon._ "

At that moment there was a knock at the door and both startled, as they hadn't expected to be interrupted. The man looked from his companion to the door and back again, and Tauriel did the same. Neither was sure which one of them should answer the knock. They had clearly spent enough time deliberating that whoever was at the door felt it necessary to knock again. 

"Excuse me, are you in there?"

The man recognised the voice of his healer at the same time as Tauriel recognised the voice of her friend.

"Gaeriel!"

Tauriel answered gladly, and not a moment later the door swung open. In walked Gaeriel, who held the door open with one hand and balanced a tray with the other. 

"Tauriel, I did not know you'd be here."

She said as she found a surface upon which to set her tray. When the tray was safely down, Tauriel stepped over to her and clasped Gaeriel's shoulders. Tauriel kept her friend at arms length, inspecting her fondly. 

"You look well, my friend."

"As do you."

The man suppressed a huff, for he felt distinctly ignored. He did not realise that they were only speaking Westron for his benefit. Tauriel released her friend after a moment and went back to her perch on the armrest, and the healer turned her attention to her patient. 

"I was told I could find you here. I have come to check your wound once more."

The man sat up a little straighter to give her better access to the injury at the back of his head, but he still scoffed at her words and that time he made no effort to hide the sound.

"I don't see what possible other reason you could have for coming."

Gaeriel faltered a little as she prepared the ointment on the tray, not entirely sure how to respond, but Tauriel laughed again and the man smiled. Gaeriel smiled then, too, for if he had been attempting to make them laugh, the healer was more than willing to get used to his sense of humour. The man, who had experienced precious few positive interactions with others, practically basked in the attention.

The trio continued talking together but not really saying anything whilst Gaeriel tended to the man, and both elves decided before very long that they rather enjoyed his company. Gaeriel had only just finished with her task when there came yet another knock at the door. 

"Who do you suppose that is?" Gaeriel asked aloud. 

Almost at the same time, Tauriel called out to the newcomer.

"Enter!"

The door swung open and in walked councillor Thenedhûn. Upon seeing him, Tauriel pushed herself off of the armrest she'd been perching on to stand and bow her head. 

"Councillor."

Gaeriel almost dropped the bowl of ointment in her hand as she turned to face him. As a mere healer, Thenedhûn outranked her far more than he outranked Tauriel, Captain of the Guard. 

" _Hir_ _nîn._ "

_(My Lord)_

Gaeriel bowed her head and dipped down a little before straightening up. Thenedhûn nodded at both of them before fixing his gaze upon the human. He studied the man with cold interest that made the human shift in his chair uncomfortably. One of his hands twitched as he fought the urge to cover his face. Thenedhûn clasped his hands together loosely in front of himself.

"I am Councillor Thenedhûn, and you may address me thusly. My King has sent me here to ascertain a few things." 

He paused, as if to give the man a chance to speak, but when he didn't Thenedhûn turned from him to Gaeriel.

" _Boe allen mened."_

_(You must go.)_

Gaeriel was more than willing to leave, for Thenedhûn intimidated her somewhat, and after gathering what she'd brought with her, she did just that. She gave the human a small nod, however, before she did, and he was truly touched by her notice of him. Not that he knew why she was leaving, though he could hazard a guess. Tauriel was less pleased, and watching the councillor order her friend about made her remember her anger.

_"Sevin dhâf am mened?"_

_(May I go?)_

"No Tauriel. You must stay and listen to his answers."

Tauriel was confused, but still angry, so she remained standing rigidly and silently hoping her glare wouldn't be noticed. It was, but Thenedhûn pretended to be oblivious to it. He liked the young Captain's spirit, but she certainly did not need to know it. With Tauriel no longer resting against the chair, it was free for Thenedhûn to sit in, and so he did, flicking his robes out as he sat to ensure they did not get crumpled.

"What are your skills?"

The man was a little unbalanced by how bluntly the questioning had begun, especially as this seemed to be so at odds with all his previous interactions with these people. With some level of trepidation, he answered. 

"I suppose... singing. Singing and music, mainly. Composing and the like. I built my own Organ under the Opera House..." 

He trailed off then at the sight of both his listeners' blank faces at the mention of an Organ. Perhaps they did not know of such an instrument; a pity indeed. When it became clear he had finished, Thenedhûn continued. 

"I see. What are your views on killing?"

The man's brows furrowed somewhat, though he sought to neutralise his expression. When he answered, he did so carefully.

"I believe it can sometimes be necessary." 

Thenedhûn showed no outward reaction to his answer at all, and the man began to feel his anxiety heightening. There was no way this elf could know his past, was there? Tauriel sensed the tension in the room grow, and she shifted her weight a little, automatically observing both of the men with increased intensity. She would have to step in if anything happened. She assumed now that this was why the Councillor had ordered her to stay. As if he couldn't fight off a single human. Still, this man was an anomaly, and unpredictable. Tauriel did not like that Thenedhûn was asking him such a question that seemed to serve no purpose other than to provoke him. Thenedhûn leaned forward slightly, looking directly into the man's eyes as he asked his next question.

"And have you ever killed?"

"My Lord!" Tauriel exclaimed instantly, appalled at how much of an interrogation this had turned into.

The man's fists clenched, as did his jaw, but he still answered calmly enough.

"Why do you ask me such a question? Is all this kindness to be revoked if I do not answer correctly?" 

Thenedhûn finally showed some emotion on his otherwise expressionless face, a placating look making itself visible as he raised a palm.

"Peace, both of you." 

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing easily even in the presence of two others who were most certainly not relaxed. 

"I will infer from your answer that you have, but you have nothing to fear from me. I am not a jailer in disguise. Have you had any training with weapons and combat? Or were you merely lucky?"

If the man hadn't been so relieved by the first few sentences, he would have found the last question condescending. At it was, he managed to unclench his fists, though when he did he found that his palms had become uncomfortably damp. Beside the chair in which Thenedhûn was sitting, Tauriel also managed to relax somewhat. 

"I am... strong. I taught myself how to use a lasso, and I've used a sword before. But no, no real training of any kind."

Thenedhûn nodded once, and sat up.

"You might think you are safe here, but the Wood is a dangerous place. You need training, that is King Thranduil's wish." 

The man blinked, Thenedhûn stood up, and Tauriel stared at both of them openly. 

"Tauriel, you will be in charge of his training."

Silence for a moment, now that his real purpose for keeping Tauriel in the room was revealed. Tauriel took a moment herself to wrap her head around the unexpected end to the questioning, and then she finally managed to speak. 

"I'll be _what!?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh hi it's me again hehe. So ...
> 
> 1\. I used 'handsome' to describe Tauriel because I'm going for a sort of old-fashioned vibe and like, to quote Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice "She is tolerable I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me." WHat a dick. Yes I have that memorised, I have most of Pride and Prejudice memorised. 
> 
> 2\. uhh h I don't think I have another note other than I hOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS CHAPTER I LOVE YOU ALL VERY MUCH THANKS FOR READING.
> 
> Chapter 10 due 20 April 2020.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training Begins.

Thenedhûn had left the room, thereby leaving Tauriel and The Man alone once again. However, the comfortable atmosphere that had existed the first time they were alone was gone. The Man hunched over as he sat; letting his bitterness consume his thoughts was as easy as breathing. 

"I hope you will forgive me, mademoiselle..." He practically spat the words out from behind clenched teeth. 

"...for being a burden, as you so clearly consider me to be one."

The Man thought that he should have expected this sooner or later. It was unwise for him to believe that anyone would ever truly want to be around him. This 'Tauriel' had been nice to him before - had _humoured_ him - and he would have to be content with that reality. He felt that he should even be grateful, but he could not. Perhaps if he still looked like a monster it would be easier to feel gratitude, but as impossible as it was he knew he no longer did. Had Christine been right? Was his true distortion hidden within? Perhaps these strange people, with their pointy ears and their magic, could somehow sense his true monstrosity. The man's mood blackened the longer he allowed his thoughts to continue down that path, and he visibly seemed to curl into himself where he sat. 

Tauriel, for her part, did not at all understand the sudden apparent change in the man, and for a moment she could only observe him in astonishment. Elves so rarely allowed their emotions to be so freely and completely observable, and the sight of it was truly startling to one who'd had little experience of other races. Still, Tauriel felt that though she did not know what exactly had caused the man's mood swing, she recognised that her words had seemed to be the trigger. It occurred to her that this man would not necessarily understand the reason for her outburst at Thenedhûn's instructions. She might not know exactly what was going through the man's head, but she could certainly explain her annoyance so as to clear up his misinterpretation of it, whatever misinterpretation that might be. 

" _Firen."_

_(Human)_

She began, pausing to see if he would respond to her. He didn't, but Tauriel continued on all the same, knowing he could hear her. 

"I did not need this additional responsibility. Councillor Thenedhûn was right, the forest is dangerous, and growing ever more so. As Captain of the Guard I-"

"You are Captain of the Guard...?"

He hadn't looked up, but at least she had his attention. Though, Tauriel wasn't entirely sure why that of all things would have aroused his interest. 

"I am."

"But you're-"

The Man cut himself off from saying 'but you're a woman' - he did not want to judge someone for something they could not change, after all. Still, he was rather surprised. The true ending of his sentence was missed by Tauriel, who forgot that humans have vastly different priorities at the best of times. Her gender had never been an issue in her position, but there was something else that had. 

"Yes, I am young - for an elf. Still, I am Captain. There is already much to do. The Spiders-"

Here she was interrupted again.

"Your biggest problem is a _spider,_ mademoiselle?"

The man asked, looking up finally, incredulity plainly written on his face. Tauriel smiled at him, though her eyes flashed with something fierce. 

"These spiders are the size of horses, _firen."_

The man opened his mouth to protest that her claim was impossible, but he stopped himself. Many things he once thought impossible had been proven very much possible in the short time he'd been among these people. 

* * *

Tauriel had left him not long after, and he'd used his time alone to explore the rooms he'd been given. An elf he did not recognise brought him some food, and the man was surprised by just how hungry he was. He was strongly advised to get some rest after he'd eaten, advice he fully intended to ignore, but when the food settled in his stomach he'd found himself uncharacteristically drowsy. At the Opera House, the night had been the best time for him to sneak around unnoticed, and for many years sleep had been far from a priority. But here, wherever 'here' was, he no longer had any use for the night-time hours except for sleeping, and so he slept.

The Man had woken from his slumber, after fewer hours than he probably needed, with a sheen of cold sweat on his brow and a slight sense of fear lingering from a nightmare he could not quite remember. Tauriel entered not long after, carrying a parcel in her hands, and she seemed a little surprised that she hadn't needed to wake him. 

"I have brought you your clothes."

She set the parcel down, and then clasped her empty hands together behind her back.

"They are strange, and not the best for training, but better than the healing robe you are still wearing. I will take you to the tailor, soon, to get you something better."

He would have protested her seemingly disdainful attitude towards his clothes - as the one part of his appearance he'd been able to control, he'd always taken great pride in his attire - but she didn't give him the opportunity. 

"Dress. I will come and get you in fifteen minutes."

He dressed quickly, and then had to wait with nothing to do until the strange woman returned. She seemed pleased he was ready to leave, and the two of them set off briskly towards the training grounds. He ate that morning at the canteen, and was introduced to a male elf called Elros, who he learned was a guard and also the Keeper of the Keys to the dungeons. The area where they ate breakfast was filled with many other elves who were all dressed very similarly to the two he now knew. The Man was hardly accustomed to such a communal experience, and he felt very much out of place. It was hard to stop his gaze from darting nervously around, but he never caught a single one of them looking at him. 

" _Firen!"_

His attention snapped back to the exasperated female elf, and he realised with some embarrassment that she'd been talking and _he_ hadn't been listening.

"As I said, Elros will help you train when I cannot."

It was very strange to him that, not only was Tauriel Captain, but the male guards seemed to have no issues taking orders from her. More surprising still was that as he'd looked around, he'd realised that female faces were hardly a rarity in the sea of people in the training area. Clearly, this place was nothing like France. He felt that he had a lot to learn, but at least here he would finally be _taught_ things, rather than having to figure things out by himself.

* * *

The next few days passed like a dream. Never in his life had he interacted with so many people so positively, and he was rather thrilled to discover that it left him feeling warm and whole inside, which was hardly something he was used to. The first two days of training had exhausted him, and he was trying to sleep more to combat this, but he found that he was still having nightmares that he refused to talk to anyone about. On the third day of his training Tauriel switched from basic exercises to gauge his level fitness, agility, and general skill, to actual lessons with blunt weapons. Elros had suggested that he learn a little fighting with each kind of weapon popular to the Elves until he found out which suited him best, and he was certainly eager to learn, though even learning the fighting styles and techniques for each weapon was tiring work.  
  
The Man paused, taking a break from his drills to drink deeply from the water skin Tauriel had given him. He was hot and sweaty, and so when a cool bead of water trickled out of the skin and ran down his neck, he did not even bother to wipe it off. His white blouse hung open, though the material clung to him uncomfortably and he was glad that Tauriel had already taken him to visit the tailor. Soon he would have a training outfit to match everyone else's. He laughed to himself, remembering the conversation he'd had with the Captain on their way back from that little adventure.

"Soon you shall dress like us, _firen._ An honorary Guard. Our youngest member."

"Am I not older than you, mademoiselle?" 

" _Firen,_ not a single member of the Guard is below 200. Not even the trainees."

The man briefly wondered if what had grown between him and the fiery elf could be called friendship, but his pondering was interrupted by a sudden, intense sensation of being watched. He whipped his head around the training grounds until he found the source of the gaze. Thranduil was striding confidently towards him, his robes billowing out on either side of his body. The Elves around him made way unquestioningly, bowing their heads a little as he passed. The man was reminded of the story of the parting of the Red Sea, but he only had a vague recollection of it, as it had been long years since he'd actually read it. What startled the man most was the look in the King's eyes. He knew he had seen such a look before, but never directed at himself. It was a look he had seen many a time in the Opera House - usually from wealthy men, and usually directed at scantily-clad ballet dancers. He'd seen such a gaze settle on dancers both female and male, though when directed at a male dancer the wealthy man often took pains to hide it until both were behind closed doors. Oh yes, he'd seen much at the Opera House, hidden in the shadows, much that society liked to pretend did not happen.   
  
Still, he felt shocked to see it in the eyes of a King. The man blinked, and it was gone, though Thranduil was almost upon him. A mistake, yes, he must have been mistaken. How could he even think so shameful a thing of a King?

"How are you enjoying your training?"

Thranduil asked him when he was close enough, in that vaguely amused, smug tone that seemed to be his default. The man was suddenly struck with the realisation that he had missed him. There was another thought too, which he refused to acknowledge, that whispered how attractive the King's voice was. 

"Well enough, monsieur." 

Thranduil looked down at him, rather disconcertingly to a man used to being the tallest person in the room before he'd arrived at this King's doorstep.

"You call me 'monsieur' often, though I would much rather you say 'my King' instead."

One corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched, and the man raised an eyebrow, wondering if it would be appropriate to give back as good as he got to a King in the presence of many of his subjects. 

"France had a King, once." He replied rather ominously, but before Thranduil could reply, Tauriel had joined them. She seemed flustered, and from what the man had managed to gather from Elros and a few of the others earlier that day he knew that the problem of the horse-sized spiders was growing ever worse.

"My Lord-"

She began, but Thranduil seemed annoyed by the interruption and cut her off.

"I will speak with you later, Tauriel."

"But my Lord-"

" _Tauriel. Ego."_

_(Leave/Go; a rude way of saying it.)_

Her face seemed almost ready to contort into rage but at the last moment she smothered it with a mask of careful indifference. Tauriel bowed stiffly, turned, and left the pair alone. The Man was not entirely sure how to feel or how to respond to what had just happened. He did not know which side to take, but the King himself now seemed on edge. The man suspected he would not stay long.

"I have come to tell you that I have visited the tailor and ordered an outfit for you to wear to the feast. It will be delivered along with the rest of your new clothes. I look forward to hearing you sing again."

The Elves around them, who up until that point had been doing an admirable job of pretending not to listen, seemed all aflutter at the knowledge that he was going to sing. Thranduil graciously pretended not to notice. What the Man of course did not realise was that due to the superior nature of Elven hearing, they could hardly help overhearing the conversation even if they tried. 

"When is it, the feast?"

It seemed to amuse Thranduil once again that he did not know when it was, and the man was rather thinking to side with Tauriel in her anger. 

"It is at the end of the week. I hope I shall see you again before then, but if I do not, I will say now: I hope you are ready."

The Man did not deign that with a response. Imagine asking the Phantom of the Opera if he would be ready to sing. Preposterous. Thranduil left him then, and once his back was turned, the man was struck with a rather childish urge to stick his tongue out at the retreating King that he only just managed to repress. He intended to continue his training, but as soon as Thranduil had left the grounds he was fairly mobbed by the Elves who'd heard that he was going to sing, and he spent most of the rest of that day's session trying to explain how the situation had come about in a way that was as free from embarrassment as possible. Once again he was struck with the realisation of what an honour it must be to be personally asked by a King to sing at this treasured Feast, and he wondered most fervently what the King's reasoning behind it was. He eventually came to the conclusion that he would never know, not unless the King himself explained, and he certainly was not going to ask. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAlloo my lovelies. Those of you who are reading along with each chapter may notice I updated the tags a little to include period-typical homophobia and sexism just in case these things are big triggers for anyone, although it's all very slight and only on The Phantom's part because of where he grew up and the time period.
> 
> I have something I'd like to mention about the fact that up until this point he's had to teach himself everything. I know in pretty much every other version of POTO he's had a life outside of the Opera House, even in the musical itself, but in the film we see the Phantom going into the Opera House as a kid and we never see him come out so I'm going off of him being just sort of being a genius and observing all the musical stuff that went on as he grew up until he understood it well enough to make his own music. 
> 
> Also - and I know most of you have stopped reading this already - I JUST WANT TO COMPLAIN that I had intended to already be at the Feast of Starlight by this chapter, and where this chapter ends was meant to be in Chapter 9 and was not even supposed to BE THE END of Chapter 9 but unfortunately my writing style is very much "have a loose idea of the plot points, but I do not control the do, the characters control the do". So there's that. 
> 
> ANYWAY I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I thought I was going to have to appologise for it being a very filler-ish time skip sort of chapter and it is a little, but nowhere near as much as I thought it was going to be!
> 
> Chapter 11 due 27 April 2020.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Man gets his new clothes, and Thranduil is still curious about his upcoming performance.

Thranduil swept around a corner as regal and pompous as ever and then, finally free from the watchful eyes of the training guards, he wilted. He stumbled slightly but caught himself by leaning heavily against a pillar. One hand raked down his face as he exhaled far louder than he normally did. 

"Thranduil Oropherion you are _not_ an elfling." 

He muttered to himself, careful to keep his voice down to avoid being overheard.

Unbidden, his mind conjured the image of what he'd just been witness to - his human guest with that strange white shirt practically _painted_ onto his skin. It had been a mistake, he realised, to have sought out the man whilst he was training merely to deliver news that he could easily have sent via a messenger, but he'd wanted to see him. He hadn't had the chance since he'd sent him to be shown to his new accommodation. Thranduil had been curious to know how he'd settled into whatever routine Tauriel had set him. Then again, how could he have known that the strange cloth of the man's shirt would turn translucent as he trained? What was more, the infernal garment hung open rather indecently at the front, which had not at all helped the situation. While Thranduil did not doubt that physically there wasn't an elf in his kingdom who _wasn't_ stronger than the man, _visually_ the man was more thickly muscled than pretty much all of his subjects. 

The hand on his face fell to his side as Thranduil indulged momentarily in remembering _just how broad_ his shoulders had proved to be, but when a particularly loud crashing sound echoed in his ears from the training grounds he'd just evacuated he snapped back to himself. He was not an elfling barely past his first century, just figuring himself out. No, Thranduil was a King, and a King of Elves at that. Besides, it was disrespectful to have such thoughts. Thranduil was not courting the man, he had no right to ogle him like a fine cut of meat in a butcher's shop. Then again, Elves had always appreciated the beauty of the natural world.

As Thranduil's thoughts threatened to stray once again to the sight he'd left behind he dug his nails into his palm hard enough to hurt and concentrated on the pain until his mind cleared. With _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ coming up, there was much for him to do. He would busy himself, and forget how the sight of the man's form had affected him, and then the mortal man could return to being an amusing distraction that he happened to be fond of. That would be the end of it, he decided, as he pushed himself off of the pillar he'd been leaning against and began to stalk down the hall in the direction of his study. He knew he was playing with fire allowing a mortal to get close to him in any capacity - and he knew what fire brought, better than most - but he also knew he could handle it. The situation would not get out of control so long as he willed it not to. Thranduil would be his benefactor, and in time perhaps his friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

* * *

Two days later, and three days before the feast, The Man's new clothes arrived. They'd been delivered and placed in his sitting room whilst he'd been bathing in his rather luxurious - at least to him - private washroom. He was surprised that whoever delivered them hadn't stuck around to make sure they fit him properly. Every tailor he'd ever been to before had required a second fitting. Then again, he hadn't been to many, and the ones he had gone to had been thoroughly convinced - read: threatened - into secrecy, so perhaps the second fitting had more to do with their nerves than their skill level.

The Man gently fingered over the garments, recognising the first two piles as what he would now be required to wear to his training. The third pile of clothes, however, he did not immediately recognise. He knew it must be his outfit for the feast, and so he scooped the surprisingly light pile of clothing into his arms and went into his bedroom where there was a large mirror embedded into one of the walls; it was skilful work, which he couldn't help but acknowledge every time he looked at it. 

For the most part, he had avoided his reflection, half because of his engrained habit of avoiding mirrors when he wasn't wearing his mask, and half because of a new fear that if he _did_ look into the mirror the illusion that King Thranduil had used on his face would somehow break and he'd find himself staring into the eyes of a monster. His eyes. Now however, if he wanted to fully appreciate his new outfit, he would need to look into the mirror.

The Man unfolded the clothes and laid them out almost reverently on his bed. The outfit appeared to be made up of three parts. The first, a pair of dark trousers that did not seem all that exciting until he moved a little and noticed that the fabric of them was embroidered all over with swirling patterns in the thinnest silver thread The Man had ever seen, so thin they could hardly be seen when the light was not hitting them. The Man dropped the towel that had been wrapped around his waist and, naked as the day he was born he crossed the room to his chest of drawers where he kept the strange undergarments he'd been given by the tailor on his visit. Apparently _those_ were not made to measure. He donned the undergarments and slipped into the trousers. He did not look into the mirror yet, he would wait until he had the whole outfit on to get the full effect. 

The second garment reminded him of what King Thranduil wore whenever he saw him. It almost looked like a dress, but he saw the long slit up the front and he realised that it was a robe. He breathed a short sigh of relief as he continued to inspect it. It was an odd colour to be sure, he could hardly decide whether it was silver, green, blue, or a mix of all three somehow. The high collar reminded him a little of the fashions of Paris, but the rest did not. The sleeves were full-length and form fitting, and down the front there were slightly raised lines that cut across the garment from the sides and journeyed inwards and downwards to meet their mirror-image companion at the centre seam that ran from the neck to where the slit was. The Man assumed that was where it opened for him to get it on. His hands went to it and, just as he thought, it opened down the middle. As he pulled it open he noticed tiny hooks on the inside, and realised that these hidden hooks myst be what kept it closed when it was on. 

It was easier to get on than he expected, and once it was on he noticed that it almost reached the floor. The fabric of it tickled the spot where his trousers ended, for both his ankles and feet remained bare. He was struck with the urge to look into the mirror to see how it suited him, and moments later he was once again struck with the realisation that he could hardly remember a time when the anticipation of looking into any reflective surface had excited him. He did not turn and look, but now he had a new reason - to hold onto the pleasant fluttering in his stomach for as long as possible. 

Eagerly, he turned his attention to the third and final garment. At first he thought it merely a cloak without a hood, but as he examined it further he realised that it would fit securely around his shoulders, and had holes cut out for both his arms to fit through. He did not know what to call it. At the top, where it would sit over his shoulders, it appeared to be the same colour as the robe he'd just put on, but it darkened as his eyes traced the length of it to a midnight blue at the bottom. It felt like crushed velvet in his hands, and though it looked heavy, when he lifted it off of the bed it was lighter than any velvet he'd ever held before. His fingers traced the embroidered patterns of stars, which were clustered into many constellations he didn't recognise at the top, but grew more spaced out and individual the further down the garment they went. The Man had never seen anything quite like it in his life. 

Suddenly in a rush, he pulled on the final item with trembling hands and turned to look in the mirror. For a moment, he could neither say nor _think_ anything, but when his mind finally started to work the first thing he did think was that he looked _expensive_. He turned slightly to the side and admired how the flowing material followed his motion. The lines on the robe emphasised the natural curves of his shoulders and chest, and for once the man thought he could understand Raoul and the meticulous attention to detail he seemed to apply to everything he wore, for all he'd called him a slave of fashion. 

Raoul. Christine. _Christine_. His heart clenched painfully and he looked up into his own eyes finally. Could she have loved him if only he'd looked like _this_ when she'd torn off his mask? _Would she?_ The thoughts were toxic he knew, and he tried to push them away however difficult it might prove to be His hands rose and he smoothed his hair back out of nervous habit. Normally without his black wig there wouldn't have been much to smooth, but whatever Thranduil had done to fix his hair certainly _felt_ real beneath his palms. The wet hair stayed in place after his hands fell back to his sides, and he turned his head this way and that, still far from used to looking so _normal._

He was distracted from his thoughts by a faint but distinct knocking, and it didn't take his genius to figure out that there was someone at the door. 

"Come in."

He called out as he made his way back into the sitting room, and by the time he entered the door was open and an elf he thought he recognised was standing in the room with a tray and Thranduil was standing just inside the doorway. 

He wasn't at all sure what to say, as he certainly hadn't been expecting Thranduil. He felt the King's eyes appraising him, no doubt judging whether or not the outfit suited him, and The Man felt a strange sensation grow within him. He wished at once for one of his secret trap doors that he'd had in the Opera House, and he wondered if this was what shyness felt like. He wasn't sure the feeling suited him.

Thranduil said something to the other elf who then placed his tray down on a side-table and left with a respectful bow. The door shut silently, and the two of them were alone once again. The newfound privacy saw Thranduil look at The Man over once more, much more overtly, and with a smirk upon his lips.

"Our clothes suit you."

He said at last, and all at once The Man was acutely aware of a burning sensation in his cheeks that he certainly wasn't comfortable with. He coughed awkwardly into his fist and then, remembering what manners he had, he offered Thranduil a seat. The King seemed amused, and The Man realised that it was a little funny to offer a King a seat in his own Kingdom, and he cracked the smallest of smiles himself. 

Thranduil settled into his chair with all the elegance The Man had come to expect, and once he was seated The Man too sat down.

"Please, help yourself."

The King vaguely gestured to the tray of food resting on the side-table, and The Man only hesitated for a moment before reaching over to grab one of the plates. He'd been training after all, and he was hungry. If Thranduil planned on staying long he might miss the communal dinner at the training grounds. Not that it mattered, it wasn't compulsory, but it was the only place he knew of so far where he could get food. 

Thranduil lounged back lazily in his chair, content to observe silently for a few moments as The Man picked over the food on his place to discover what there was - salads, cold meats, and savoury pastries. Thranduil himself reached out an arm to the tray, but his hand bypassed the other plate completely and collected one of the full wine glasses instead. His gaze never left The Man as he brought the cup to his lips. 

"I've been meaning to ask how you are settling in." Thranduil began. "I have not had the time, until now."

The Man, who had not quite recovered from the embarrassment of blushing, remained silent, but when it became clear that Thranduil was expecting an answer he found his voice. 

"It is strange here. It is not like France... but I think ... perhaps I prefer it."

His answer seemed to satisfy the King, and The Man supposed that it was only natural for him to be satisfied by any raise of his Kingdom, no matter now vague. The pair fell into silence for a time then whilst The Man at, and he was genuinely surprised by how comfortable it was, the pleasant sensation only dampened by his growing self-consciousness. Eventually, he had to say _something._

"Why are you here?"

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but the rest of his face gave nothing away. 

"Do I need a reason to visit my guest?"

"Am I your guest, _monsieur_?"

"Well, we are currently in the royal guest chambers."

The Man hadn't known, and didn't know what to say in response. He looked down at his plate, all at once very interested in his food. After a pause, Thranduil spoke again. 

"I have something for you, to go with your outfit for the feast."

"What else could I possibly need to wear?"

Thranduil set his wine glass back down on the side-table and reached to a hidden pocket in his robe. When his hand reappeared he was holding something small wrapped in a piece of cloth that looked like the same material as the unusual cape The Man was wearing. Elegant, ring-covered fingers pulled back the fabric and lifted the object inside up into the light. It was a brooch, silver in colour, the delicate metal twisted in the shape of antlers. The Man's eyes flicked from it to the brooch clasped at the base of Thranduil's neck, and his breath caught slightly in his throat, for though they were not the same - Thranduil's brooch had a large gem set in the centre - it was clear that the one had been inspired by the other. 

"To mark you as my guest to those who will not know you."

Thranduil offered this explanation and The Man nodded mutely, his fingers reaching for it. He'd _never_ been gifted something so exquisite. However, before his fingers could reach it Thranduil drew it away from him and stood.

"Let me put it on you?"

Although Thranduil's words were, in theory, a question, The Man did not take them as such. He immediately set aside his plate and stood. Nimble fingers found the fabric covering the base of his own neck and The Man felt his breath hitch as Thranduil reached into his space. Time seemed to slow down as the brooch was carefully set in place, and when Thranduil's fingers brushed his bare skin he could hear his blood rushing in his ears. It felt alien and intimate, and he looked stubbornly at the floor lest he risk catching the King's gaze. He swallowed slowly, and subconsciously flicked his tongue to whet his dry lips as the perceived intimacy of their physical closeness brought a tingle of arousal to his skin. Then Thranduil was done, and The Man stepped back and sat down as if the King's touch had burned him, for he was disgusted by his own reaction and terrified that Thranduil might realise what a mere brush of his fingers had done. If he noticed anything odd in The Man's behaviour, he did not say. Instead, he settled comfortably back into his chair and reached finally for his own plate of food.

"What will you sing?"

The Man was glad of this new line of conversation to distract him from his own distasteful mind. He clasped his hands together loosely in his lap, and attempted to keep his body language open so King Thranduil wouldn't suspect anything was amiss with him. 

"I considered singing one of my own songs, but most of those require either a full chorus or ... a more private audience."

"And why should a song require a private audience?"

Thranduil asked innocently enough, but there was a sly tone to his voice that made The Man believe that Thranduil at least suspected what the answer to that might be.

"My own songs tend to be passionate, _monsieur_."

"Passionate? Intriguing. I think I should like to hear one of your songs, but perhaps not at the feast?" 

The Man barely managed not to choke on his surprise as he tried to convince himself that Thranduil was merely _curious_ , nothing more.

"A private performance some time, perhaps." 

He suggested, and was surprised by how calm his own voice sounded. Thranduil nodded slightly. 

"You still haven't told me what you will sing."

"I might wish to surprise you."

"Do not test my patience."

Though Thranduil's voice was stern, his expression was open and his eyes inviting, and the longer they talked the more drunk The Man felt, despite not touching the glass of wine he assumed was for him. 

"I shall sing you something popular and Italian."

Thranduil leant forward slightly.

"Italian? Is that the same language as that word you still insist on using?"

"No, _'monsieur'_ is a French word." 

"How many languages you speak. It is unusual for your kind here."

The Man had familiarised himself with the knowledge that he truly was a different type of being than Thranduil and his subjects, but that didn't stop his instinctive bristle at Thranduil's words. He pushed away his discomfort in favour of his curiosity to learn more about _his_ kind and what they were like in this strange place. He was about to ask for more information, but he was cut off by Thranduil as he spoke again.

"You still have not told me what you are going to sing. I could always have you thrown in the dungeons."

The Man scoffed and shook his head, not believing it for a second despite how serious Thranduil might appear to be. He did not believe the Elven King would go through the trouble of hosting him properly only to thrown him into the dungeons on a whim. 

"I don't believe you would, _monsieur."_

He paused, smugly satisfied, and leaned back.

"But as the King commands. I am going to sing _Nessun Dorma_ at your feast."

Thranduil, his curiosity finally satisfied - at least as to the name of the song - smiled and bowed his head slightly and earnestly to convey his thanks. When he looked back up, a thought came to him. 

"Will you not need music, or is this song unaccompanied?" 

"There is music with it, but I believe my voice will sound well enough on its own. I do not have any musicians up my sleeve, _monsieur"_

Thranduil's head tilted to one side, his icy-blonde hair following the motion and framing his smirking face as if it were a painting of great value. 

"Perhaps not, but I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> I'm so sorry this chapter came out late. I uh managed to pull my back on Monday and I was just in p a i n also I had to finalise my module choices for my last year at uni on Monday night so I was kinda panicking.
> 
> ANYWAY I don't have much to say about this chapter other than I have decided to go with Nessun Dorma even though I was worried it might be cliche & it wasn't actually written yet at the time POTO is set. I mean, it's my favourite male solo opera song and I know a lot of other people would say the same :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> Chapter 12 due April 4 (although it might also be delayed since I have a coursework deadline on the 5th)


	13. AN UPDATE FROM ME

Hello my loves, I'm just coming on here to let you know that Exams are over and I have recovered, and you can expect weekly updates on this fic again starting next monday. Thank you all so much for your patience with me during this time. 

I'm sorry that I dipped out without explaining here, I explained on my tumblr but I forgot to do so on ao3. Thank being said, I hope the wait for the next update hasn't been too bad, and I also hope that it will have been worth it!

The next few chapters will hopefully, HOPEFULLY, have Phantom Boy gaining a new name from King Thranduil when he FINALLY sings at the bloody feast, and then we can get onto the fun stuff and by fun stuff I mean their slowly sprouting romance as well as The Phantom exploring more and more aspects of Elven culture and how it's different from the 1800's France that he left behind.


	14. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Man finally meets other musicians.

Thranduil had initially been intending to take The Man to see his musicians the next day, but once he'd seen the look on The Man's face the King decided not to delay the visit any longer than was strictly necessary. The King bade The Man to change out of his outfit for the feast, for it would not do for him to be seen wearing it before that time. The Man reemerged from his bedroom only a handful of minutes later, wearing another of his new Elven outfits, but this one was woefully plain in comparison. Still, Thranduil couldn't help but enjoy the sight, particularly as it was quite clear that The Man had dressed in a hurry and was rather dishevelled looking. His forest green tunic hadn't been fully clasped at the front. Thranduil himself had no issue with this but - rather irrationally - he was seized with the sudden urge to prevent anyone else from witnessing the exposed sliver of skin. The shirt he'd worn the day Thranduil had visited him at the training grounds had been far more exposing, yet somehow this was different. 

It was a silly thing, but then why be a King if you can't cater to your whims every once in a while? Thranduil crossed the room and without a word he reached up to fasten the last few hidden clasps on The Man's tunic, and if the tips of his fingers brushed against The Man's skin then it was, of course, completely accidental. If The Man's breath hitched, Thranduil pretended not to notice. Then they were off, tearing down the long, winding halls of Thranduil's Kingdom, The King convincing himself that he would not give in to such an indulgence again, and The Man trying to bring his heart rate back down to normal whilst desperately trying to pretend that it hadn't been elevated in the first place.

It didn't take too long for the pair to reach their destination, after all, it was only natural that the King's personal musicians would practice in a room relatively near to the royal quarters. Thranduil was not entirely certain whether or not they'd still be practicing, as it was long past dinner time, but with the feast coming up, he assumed - or rather hoped - that they would have extended their usual hours. They near their destination and Thranduil heard before The Man did the sound of fine music. The Elven King was not overly familiar with the sensitivity - or lack thereof - of human ears, but it was impossible to miss when The Man heard the music too. His steps halted for a moment, and then he was rushing towards the sound, for he now had the guidance of his own ears, rather than having to rely on The King to show him the way. Thranduil resisted both the urge to laugh and the urge to run after him, though he was greatly amused by The Man's enthusiasm. 

The Man reached the door to the music room first and almost burst straight in, but collected himself right before he touched the handle, and decided to wait for The King instead. Thranduil caught up with him not long after, a smirk gracing his face when he looked at The Man waiting - rather impatiently - for him. It would've been all too easy to tease The Man, but Thranduil didn't know how well he'd take it in this scenario. He had built a tentative trust with The Man, it seemed, and he would not risk it merely for a cheap joke. Thranduil remained silent, reached for the door handle, and pushed it open. 

The music came to a halt when the door opened, and all eyes in the room looked to the newcomers. When, after a moment, the Elves in the room recognised that one of their guest was their King, they stood immediately. 

" _Hîr nín-"  
  
_

"Peace."

Thanduil cut off the perfunctory polite greeting with a word and a wave of his hand, and then he gestured to The Man beside him. As The King began the process of introductions and explanation what the pair was doing there, The Man's attention was caught by the instruments around the room, some he was familiar with and some that were less familiar. He completely tuned out whatever was being said in the room around him and instead walked over to a shelf covered in what appeared to be sheet music. Thranduil himself was rather enjoying the enraptured look on The Man's face, as well as the confused looks on the faces of his musicians, but his amusement was cut short when Tauriel burst through the door of the music room. 

_"Hîr nín."_

She began, but seeing The Man out of the corned of her eye, she switched to the common tongue. 

"I've been looking for you everywhere. Please, my King, you must come with me now."

Seeing the look on his Captain's face, Thranduil saw that this wasn't something he could delay. His expression grew somber and he nodded his assent. In the next moment, both Elves had swept out of the room, leaving The Man alone with the musicians. 

Not knowing what exactly to do with the strange human in their midst, the Elves still in the room looked around at each other silently and then at The Man. Just as they did so, The Man suddenly turned, his demeanour almost feverish with excitement, and in his hands he was clutching a piece of music that was ... completely non-descript. 

"It's... it's the same!"

* * *

As it turned out, 'what' was the same was the way the notes were written, or at least, the rules followed by the musical notation on the Elven sheet music was the same as the notation The Man was familiar with. The notes themselves were written much fancier - unnecessarily so in his opinion - but that mattered little. 

The Elves were, initially, too shocked to do much in the face of a human so overtly passionate about music. It wasn't something they would have necessarily expected, but they got used to it soon enough and began to reciprocate with enthusiasm of their own. During the introduction that The Man had largely ignored, Thranduil had in fact mentioned that he would be singing at the feast. When the Elves asked him about potential accompanying music, they began to truly see the depths of his passion for music. 

He had asked for black music paper, a quill, and ink, which they provided, and they watched eagerly as he scribbled furiously for several long minutes. When he was done, he handed the finished sheets back to them and muttered something about it being what they needed to play. They then watched as he went back to where they'd gotten the blank paper from and took out almost the entire pile. 

The Man seemed to go into some kind of trance to those Elves watching as he began to write again. Page after page he covered in songs that none of them recognised. At first they were curious as to the music itself, but as time wore on, they became more curious to see just how long he would be able to write for whilst ignoring his basic needs. He was, after all, only human...

* * *

Tauriel was truly not in the mood to kick disrespectful humans awake for sleeping through the start of training, but that was the position she found herself in. At least, she thought she was. However, when she angrily burst into his bedroom he ... wasn't there. 

_Surely not._ She thought. _Surely he is not still with the musicians..._

Still, that was the only other place she knew to look for him. When Tauriel entered the music room, she was more than surprised to see that The Man actually _was_ still there. He was hunched over, scribbling away, looking like he hadn't slept a wink, which - she reflected - he probably hadn't. The Man hadn't seemed to notice her enter, and so she crossed the room to where a few of the musicians still remained. 

"All night he's been at that, Captain. It's remarkable."

"He hasn't taken a single break."

Tauriel kept an eye on The Man as she spoke with them.

"What exactly _is_ he doing?"

"At first we thought he might be composing, but all the finished sheets are marked with different names."

"We think he's writing down music from his people... though we do not recognise any of the songs."

"Where is he from exactly? It is odd for us not to recognise even one of the songs of his people."

Well, that was a question Tauriel could not answer. Besides that, the Captain was eager to return to her duties, rather than babysitting the King's pet human. It was clear he needed sleep; humans could not sustain long periods without rest like an elf could, this she knew, and so without a second thought, she crossed the room and heaved the man over her shoulder. One of the musicians thoughtfully opened the door for her. 

The Man was at first too shocked at being forcefully lifted away from his obsessive task to react, and then doubly shocked that Tauriel was strong enough to do so, though he'd had many opportunities in training to witness her strength. Once he'd finally regained control of his thoughts, he hardly knew how to react. 

"Captain!" 

He'd grown accustomed to referring to her by her title over the course of his training so far. 

"What, _firen?"_

Tauriel tried to keep her voice firm, but it was difficult to do so when the humour of the situation was starting to shine through.

"P-put- put me down!"

"I cannot do that."

The two continued to bicker as Tauriel all but dragged him towards his bedroom, only to almost crash into Orthordir as he came walking down the hallway in the opposite direction. Tauriel dropped The Man, and he only just managed to catch himself before face-planting into the floor. 

"Councillor Orthordir!"

"Well well Captain." 

Orthordir had a bright smile that encompassed his whole face as he observed the pair. 

"And the King's guest! This is not how I expected to meet you. _Mae govannen_ all the same."

( _Well met/a greeting_ )

He placed a hand over his heart and bowed slightly. The Man only just remembered to reciprocate the gesture. 

"I must be going, matters to attend to , you know how it is Captain. Farewell!"

With that he was off walking again. There was silence between the two remaining until he was out of sight, and then they looked to each other and absolutely fell about laughing. The Man clutched at his stomach, wondering why laughing so hard _hurt_ , and then trying to remember if he's ever laughed like that before. He didn't think that he had. Their laughter eventually died down, and to his surprise, he yawned. Tauriel noticed of course, and she put a hand on his shoulder. 

"Come _firen,_ you need rest. I do not need you to train today."

The Man, who suddenly felt the weight of the hours of sleep he'd ignored, did not have the strength in him to disagree. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!!! This fic is back with regular updates <3 Tbh I don't know how I feel about this chapter, but I do like that it has more Tauriel x The Man interaction because their friendship will be important later I believe (although idk sometimes my fics don't do what I think they will. Whomst knows.) ANYWAYS I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Next chapter due Monday 20 July!!!


	15. Chapter Twelve (.5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened after Orthordir left them in the hall

Orthordir did in fact have matters to attend to, however he decided they could wait. He'd much rather regale his King with the tale of what he'd just witnessed. As he walked, he quickly changed his course to lead him towards the King's chambers. 

He knocked on the external door when he arrived, but Thranduil didn't come to open it. Instead, he called out to whoever it was, telling them to enter. Orthordir did. Thranduil was not in his sitting room when Orthordir walked inside. One of the doors off to the side of the room was partially open - the study door - and Orthordir went in. 

Thranduil was leaning over a map, his head cradled in one hand as the other hand made marks on the paper with an ornate quill. A glance was enough to let the Councillor recognise the map as a map of the wood, though the marks Thranduil was making upon it were far more sinister, for they depicted where spiders had been sighted among the trees. It was clear that the King needed cheering up. Well, Orthordir considered that rather a speciality of his. 

He leant against the desk and waited till his King looked up. 

"What do you need, Orthordir?"

His tone was clipped, impatience laced in with his words, but Orthordir didn't mind. The King had many things to worry about as of late. 

"I need nothing, you old cynic, do i need a reason to visit my dear friend and King?"

Thranduil stayed silent, raised his eyebrows, and leant back in his chair.

"Well alright, there is a reason, but it is not anything i need from you. Rather, I have a tale to tell you."

"Alright Councillor, you have my attention, but mind I must get back to my word soon."

So Orthordir spent the next few minutes recounting how he'd come across The Human and the Captain of the Guard in a hallway, and both Elves managed to laugh heartily at the situation. The only thing marring Thranduil's amusement was the small squeeze of discomfort he felt hearing about how close his guest and his Captain had become. His discomfort confused him. He wanted The Man to find a home in his Kingdom, so why was he so uncomfortable to learn of a fast-growing friendship between The Man and one of his own?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm calling this chapter 12.5 rather than chapter 13 because it's so short and it's not where I want chapter 13 to go, but it didn't make sense to add it later so... y e a h. Also sorry this is so short, I spent the first half of monday at a funeral and the second half having another migraine :') Threw up 3 times in less than an hour and a half and it hurted my tummy. Next week's chapter should be nice and long <3


	16. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tauriel is concerned.

His first thought when he was caught in that forgetful place between sleeping and waking was that he must be hungover. When he blinked away hazy dreams from swollen eyes, however, he remembered that he hadn’t been drinking, he’d merely neglected to go to sleep before the moon did. The Man didn’t quite understand why one sleepless night had affected him so. He often treated his body thusly when he was still in France. Perhaps he had been spoiling himself since he’d been in this strange Kingdom, or perhaps the years of abusing his health were finally catching up with him. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, after all. He sat up. 

The Man quickly realised he had no idea what time it was, though considering how groggy he felt he assumed he hadn’t been asleep that long. He groaned quietly, putting a palm over his forehead as he felt his head throb - no doubt his own fault caused by his lack of sleep. The Man swung his legs out over the side of the bed and let his feet touch the floor, which was just cold enough to help him wake up but not enough to make him flinch. 

As The Man got himself out of bed and began to get dressed there was a knock at the outer door of his chambers. He called out loudly from his bedroom for them to enter, and as soon as his clean tunic was fully buttoned he walked out to meet whoever it was in his sitting room. It was Tauriel. He was surprised to see her there and his face must have shown it, for she laughed at him a little. 

“ _Firen_ , did you really think I wouldn’t come to check up on you after having to drag you to your bed?”

He blinked.

“What about training?”

“They can handle themselves, they know what to do. We do not actually have any new recruits at the moment… other than you.”

She smirked at him and he felt himself relax as he reciprocated the expression. The Man settled down on one of his chairs and Tauriel sat opposite him, perching on the chair rather than sprawling out as he was. After a moment she spoke again, her words more curious than critical.

“Why did you do it?”

“Forgive me Captain, but I’m not entirely sure-”

She cut off his overly polite confusion before he could continue. 

“Why did you spend all night writing music? You are human.”

  
The Man had spent long enough among Elves to know that any reference to his species was only ever meant as an honest observation - it was never meant to offend. 

“Your body is not something you should mistreat, _mellon nîn_ ”

_(My friend)_

Personal questions were still not something The Man was comfortable answering, but the Captain of the Guard sounded so genuinely concerned by his poor treatment of himself that he felt she deserved an answer. Besides, The Man was well aware that it was not exactly the question itself that was personal - for it was purely innocuous - but the answer to it. That was not something Tauriel could possibly have known when she asked it, and so The Man would not begrudge him. 

“Music is…”

He paused in his answering almost as soon as he began, wringing his hands together as he considered how best to phrase what he was about to say. In the few days that he had been living in the Elven Kingdoms his life had already changed drastically enough that what words before would have been accurate enough to express his feelings would not no longer do them justice. During his pause, Tauriel remained silent, presumably seeing that The Man was rather deep in thought, and he was grateful for it. 

“Music has been a constant companion in my life. I have always felt connected to it in a way that very few other things, or even people, could rival.”

Here he paused again for a moment, frowning. He did not want to distress the Captain by painting too bleak a picture of his life, though bleak was what it all too often had been. 

“In times when I had little else there was alway music, even if it was only in here.”

The Man’s finger gently tapped against his temple, and Tauriel leant forwards slightly, intrigued. She could not quite tell whether he meant he would play songs he already knew inside his mind or whether his mind would actually come up with songs of its own. 

“In the time that I’ve been here there has been less need to distract myself from my own loneliness. I have been surrounded by people. It is… strange for me. Still, these few days have not been enough to break any habits.”

He risked a glance at the Captain then and, finding her listening contentedly, he continued again. 

“Often, when I start something - anything - that relates to music, time ceases to be of any importance. I throw myself into the task until it is either complete or my body gives up on me. I confess there have indeed been times when I have woken up in a pile of half written sheet music and have gone straight back to the task at hand…”

The Man trailed off, wondering if he was now rambling and if his words were unnecessary. Tauriel hadn’t exactly gasped, but he’d seen her briefly place her hand over her mouth. He’d begun to understand how little the Elves around him tended to emote, so he knew even that small action was an indication of how affected she was by what he was saying. It made him realise and confront perhaps for the first time, just how unhealthy his lifestyle had been when he had been living beneath the Opera House. At length, Tauriel herself began to speak.

“ _Firen_ you have talked little of your life before you came here, at least to me, but I think I begin to understand.”

Where before she had been leaning forwards subconsciously, Tauriel now leant still further towards The Man till she was close enough to reach out a hand and rest it over his. He barely managed to repress a flinch of shock at the sudden, unexpected contact.

“The gift of music is a wonderful thing, but I hope that now you are here, your love of music will become… more of a passion and perhaps less of a distraction.” 

“Indeed Captain, I believe that would be a very healthy turn of events.” 

The pair of fledgling friends shared a quiet moment, hands clasped and mouths smiling slightly, and afterwards both of them felt better for it. Together they continued to talk, discussing how they felt his training was progressing as well as other topics of little consequence until this privacy was interrupted by another knock at the door. 

“Mon Dieu! I _am_ popular today.”

Tauriel swatted him lightly as he made his way over to open it. Behind the door was someone The Man vaguely recognised as one of the musicians he’d met the day before. Tauriel got up from her chair to greet the newcomer. 

“ _Mae govannen_! Your name is Berthon, is it not?”

_(Well met; a greeting)_

“Ah- yes, Captain Tauriel that is my name.”

Living as long as they did, most Elves past maturity had at least a vague knowledge of everyone who lived in the same Kingdom as they did themselves. The Man, of course, did not know this, but he was very glad that Tauriel had felt the need to confirm her knowledge, for he had entirely forgotten the musician’s name. Perhaps when this elf had introduced himself he’d already stopped paying attention. The elf stepped into the room as The Man moved aside to allow him entry. Once he was inside, he turned to The Man. 

“Please forgive me, I am not entirely sure what to call you… The King did explain your situation.”

It was rather entertaining for The Man to listen to this elf speak, for he was certainly the most nervous, flustered elf he had ever heard. He had not met an over-abundance of Elves, having been in the Elven Kingdom for less than a month, but all of the Elves he had met so far certainly appeared to be very serene. 

“Certainly, not having a name that you may be addressed by is a highly unusual circumstance. It is not one that I have come across before in all my years…”

As the elf continued to speak, coming as close to rambing as any elf The Man has ever witnessed, Tauriel seemed to notice his amusement and - realising that The Man was content to let Berthon go on and on - decided to put a stop to the situation. 

“Berthon, it is fine. He understands - you need not fear any rudeness.”

The male elf looked to Tauriel and The Man and realised that they were both smiling, though Tauriel’s smile was soft where The Man’s was more teasing. Berthon relaxed a little. With that awkwardness out of the way, Berthon could get on to explaining the reason why he was there in the first place. He thrust his hands out towards The Man, who recognised after a brief moment that the elf was holding some of the very same sheet music The Man had spent all night scribbling into existence. 

“The music you wrote… it is entirely unknown to us and, well, perhaps you don’t realise what a rare occurrence this is.”

Berthon seemed to flounder then, silent for a few beats, but where The Man chalked this up to nervousness, Tauriel could see it was because he was struggling to find the words he wanted to say in Westron. Almost all Elves knew the language of the common folk, but the Elves of the Greenwood did not often get the chance to _use_ it. 

“The other musicians and I would be honoured if you would allow us to play some of this new music at the feast and we would very much like it if you would join us in this.”

The Man’s jaw dropped and for a little while he simply stared at Berthon. He was not sure exactly what he felt, but whatever emotion it was had certainly rendered him speechless. Still, his first instinct was to clamour to accept the offer, but then he remembered that he was not free to accept it - playing that at the feat would require at least _some_ practice, and currently all his days were spent training with the Guards. He glanced at Tauriel and then opened his mouth to decline the offer as politely as he could, but Tauriel beat him to it. 

“That is a wonderful idea Berthon...”

She turned to face The Man.

“... and this is a good way for you to repay the honour the King has bestowed upon you.”

“But Captain, the training-”

She held up a hand to silence him and he, having gotten used to following her orders, closed his mouth immediately. 

“Consider it a holiday from training _Firen_. You may practice for the next few days with the musicians, and I can get back into the trees and get to work exterminating those horse-sized spiders.”

Tauriel spoke, and so it was. The Man spent the remaining days leading up to the feast practicing with the King’s musicians and Tauriel spent them dashing through the trees with her bow in her hand a grim expression on her face. The Man did not see the King again until the day of the feast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG LOOK ITS m o N dA Y and I have an UPLOaDEd chAptER wOO. And for once I had this typed up and ready to go last night rather than scrambling to finish it ON THE SAME DAY I WANTED TO UPLOAD IT. 
> 
> ANYWAY I CAN NOW SAY WITH ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY THAT THE NEXT CHAPTER STARTS ON THE DAY OF THE FEAST!!! WOOHOOOOO!! I'm way too freaking excited about this, ok, soon I won't have to keep obnoxiously typing out (T)he (M)an every time I want to refer to phantom boy. 
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy this chapter xxx


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